


Thirteen Strokes

by Luna_Lee



Category: Naruto
Genre: Culture, Drama & Romance, Family Dynamics, GaaLee Bingo 2020, M/M, Politics, Post-Fourth Shinobi War, Slow Burn, Sunagakure | Hidden Sand Village, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27233170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Lee/pseuds/Luna_Lee
Summary: Gaara knows how to say the word love in so many languages he's lost count of all the ways. He knows how to write it in just as many. The first way he learned is etched into the skin of his forehead, thirteen precise strokes. He studies love like it's a discipline that he still hasn't mastered, seeking it out in books and art and old stories from Suna's past; he crafts it in various ways, and tries to learn and relearn its meaning with every breath he takes. He searches for it in the eyes of foreign shinobi and the locals alike. He begs to understand love and all its forms, never quite full up on it, never quite sure what exactly he's missing when it comes to love.
Relationships: Gaara/Rock Lee, Nara Shikamaru/Temari
Comments: 36
Kudos: 36
Collections: GaaLee Bingo





	1. First Stroke

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been sitting in my ideas document for over a year, and I finally caved in because I was listening to the song that inspired it while running errands and I was too overwhelmed not to go for it. Plus, this has the added bonus of being another GaaLee Bingo fill--for this I'm using 'Love Languages', which will span the entire thirteen chapters, instead of doing a prompt per chapter. 
> 
> The song that inspired this fic initially is--because I am a caricature of myself--[All This and Heaven too](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gs5KqERhqZ0) by Florence+The Machine. This fic is very much self-indulgent, all about politics and culture and that slow burn love story. I'm hoping I can do this song justice, because it is absolutely one of my favourite Florence songs. This is very much an exercise in building on so much of what I already have for worldbuilding in the Naruto world. This fic will include some easter eggs for people who are reading [The Art of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12321255/chapters/28013073), too!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge shoutout to [cmdr-bun](https://cmdr-bun.tumblr.com/) who created the gorgeous peace of fanart featuring a scene from this chapter! The art itself can be found [here](https://sagemoderocklee.tumblr.com/post/634910515973505024/sagemoderockleelee-was-rooted-to-his-spot), and is also embedded into the actual chapter!

_“And the heart is hard to translate  
It has a language of its own  
It talks in tongues and quiet sighs  
And prayers and proclamations  
In the grand deeds of great men and the smallest of gestures  
And short, shallow gasps_

_But with all my education, I can't seem to command it  
And the words are all escaping, and coming back all damaged  
And I would put them back in poetry, if I only knew how  
I can't seem to understand it”_  
-Florence+the Machine, _All This and Heaven too_

Sunagakure was a sprawling, spiraling village born from earth and molded by wind. Her buildings, though mostly in shades of brown and muted greens and subdued reds, were dappled with vibrancy. Tapestries hung from windows and doorways, woven in fine spider's silk of glittering splendor; elegant pottery, painted in various colors and sometimes shot with gold, held flowering and fruit-bearing cactus on open terraces, rooftops, and windowsills; blown glass hung from wires along every street, so that the sun's rays fractured and speckled Suna with rainbows. 

From the sky, the spiraling design of Suna's main road swirled like water running down a drain, leading to her heart where the deep blue of the chaitya, Suna's oldest building, was nestled. The prayer hall, ancient though it was, was resplendent; great care had been taken over its long life to keep its walls from crumbling, the color from fading, and the artful carvings and mosaics from eroding. The saturated blue of its exterior was surrounded by the warm sepia of newer buildings, so that the eye was always drawn to it. It was the only building in Suna to hold such color in its structure. However, it was not the only building in Suna that drew the eye. 

Suna's main library was situated against the northwest wall, directly across from Suna's gates, though one would still need to find their way through the winding roads of the village to reach it. It was built directly into the rising cliffs, so that it sat on various levels, rising up towards the flat of the plateau and towering over the rest of the village. Its exterior was made, not of clay, but of stone the color of jade or moss; and then of striated brown so that sections of the building might have been carved from tiger's eye. Where it's arcs and ledges met jade, it was edged in faint bronze-orange, muted like the memory of a sunset or tarnished and rusting metal; and where those same moldings met brown, they were the color of the sky, yet softer somehow, as if pale clouds had rolled in. Though the building's colors were not so saturated as the chaitya, the library beckoned the eye to it, calling to those who sought the solace of knowledge. 

The library was Suna's greatest achievement, known throughout the whole of Wind as the Gods' Chaitya, the place where the gods went to pray, for what else could a god pray to but knowledge itself. 

For Gaara of the Desert—a god to his people, by all accounts—the library had been his first home. 

After Yashamaru, when he'd become the monster everyone feared and he'd had no love in his heart to speak of, the books and scrolls and the echos from the Oratory at the heart of the library had been a balm for the heart he'd convinced himself he no longer had. The books were his friends, the scrolls his family, and the voices bouncing like prayer and echoing from the Oratory the whisper of love he'd never know. He learned, at the tender age of six, that knowledge could not fear, could not bleed, could not die, could not lie, and it could not hate. Knowledge was knowledge, nothing less than that, and knowledge was something Gaara could trust. 

He could trust books and scrolls and stories echoing through halls better than he could trust the smiling face of anyone who dared speak the word 'love'. 

The librarians, known as Suna's Keepers, had feared Gaara, like any rational person would, and so they had always given him a wide berth whenever his tiny body had slipped through the library's great doors. It had allowed him to sit in quiet corners, uninterrupted as he poured over tombs and scrolls, or pressed his ear against the wall of the Oratory. He taught himself to read and write; taught himself maths and sciences; taught himself history and language; taught himself everything and anything he could. It was the only humanity he was afforded, and Gaara had drunk it up as eagerly as he'd thought his sand drank blood. 

As a child, he'd been convinced he'd be able to read everything the library had to offer and hear all the stories passing down through the generations. As Kazekage, he knew it would never be, for Suna's library was too expansive, even for a man as hungry for knowledge as he was; even for a man who did not lose hours of his day to dreams. 

But the library was always there, always with its doors open to him, always with something knew to teach him. 

And one day, after years of trauma and grief; years of redemption and atonement; years of quiet, tentative happiness, the library taught him about love. 

____________________________ 

The old stone of the library was warm to the touch, like a hug or a blanket. The heat from the desert lingered in the library's halls, even after night fall. Gaara preferred the library at night, when few patrons came to visit and when the silence hung differently, more hushed and reverent. Old whispered tales of the gods walking at night kept all but shinobi indoors past midnight, though even shinobi held fast to superstition. 

Gaara, though he knew gods to be real, had never seen one within the library. He supposed he might not have known it if he had, but he was certain he had not. He felt sure that a god ought to leave an impression, like sitting oddly for too long and coming away with a mark. Sometimes, as a child, he would linger in the darkest corners of the library—there were many dark places in the Gods' Chaitya—hoping to meet a god. He'd thought many times of what he would do if he were to meet one—kill the god, had always been at the top of his list, but somewhere, in the hidden recesses of his soul, he'd wanted to ask the gods to forgive him, to love him, to save him. 

But as a child, Gaara did not pray. And he did not love. 

And the gods never did come to the library—not to die, nor to learn. 

There had only ever been Kōizo, an old, blind Weaver from the Oratory, and Gaara. Kōizo, perhaps because of his blindness, treated Gaara not unkindly. Children were not permitted in the library—too many old and valuable texts for them to destroy—but Gaara had never been a child. And even if he had been, the rules didn't apply to him. Kōizo had allowed Gaara to keep him company while he recited stories from Suna's history, and he'd provided Gaara with reading when he was too busy training future Weavers.

Kōizo's old room had been cold and empty ever since his death. Weavers were rarer these days, too much of Suna's oral traditions withering away in the wake of the shinobi way of things, and so the Oratory of the library was quieter than it had been during Gaara's childhood. It was why, with the arrival of peace times and new alliances, he'd decided to shift his focus to preserving Suna's beautiful heritage. 

“Kazekage-sama,” the Overseer greeted, waiting for him in the shade of the library's great doors. The sun was at its highest point, beating down upon Suna with a heavy hand.

“Kigen,” Gaara returned, inclining his head. Kigen was old—perhaps as old as Suna—and had been Overseer of the Gods' Chaitya for longer than Gaara had been alive. She might have been one of Suna's first Weavers and Keepers. Gaara did not know, because Kigen kept secrets better than some shinobi. Perhaps Kigen was one of the gods so often whispered about in the late hours of the night. 

“Welcome back. It has been a while, hasn't it?” Kigen held her arms wide, and Gaara stepped into the glittering light of the entrance hall. The library had few windows, to avoid books and scrolls fading from the sun's harsh rays, but the entrance hall was a work of art. It was a wide, circular room, with three high, stained glass windows—one as blue as the chaitya, one of yellow and orange, and one a rainbow of colors. Sunlight refracted through the colorful glass, bouncing against sea-glass tiles inlaid upon the floor and the geometric mirrors within the walls. Entering the library was like entering another world—a world more colorful than the desert after a superbloom. 

Gaara thought that if he were a man of prayer, he would rather pray here than anywhere else. 

“How is it you are still no taller than when you were newly made Kazekage?” Kigen asked, clicking her tongue. 

“I believe it has to do with my premature birth,” Gaara said dryly, a rye smile at the edge of his mouth. 

“Excuses, excuses,” Kigen tutted, a smile of her own playing upon her wrinkled face. “You must have pressing business here if you've come at this time of day.” 

“I do.” Gaara appreciated Kigen's ability to cut to the chase. 

“Then shall we take this to my study?” 

She did not wait for an answer, turning sharply on her heel so that the hem of her heavily embroidered kaftan billowed as she walked. Her footsteps echoed across the sea-glass tiles, so that there was an echoing clink, like water hitting crystal glass. She pushed the interior doors of the entrance hall wide, and Gaara followed after her. 

“Have you read anything of interest recently?” Kigen asked. She was in a good mood, today. 

“Not of late,” Gaara said idly. “You haven't received any new materials, have you?” 

“Not of late,” she confirmed. “Our last good find must have been—what? Six months ago, now? I believe you already read that one.” 

“I did.” As Kazekage, he was always the second to know about new arrivals to the library—Kigen was, of course, the first. 

“We are, of course, working to track down the rest of that particular text. I believe it's a set of three.”

“How has that been going?” 

“It's been six months, so that should tell you something.” 

Gaara liked Kigen for her cheek. Most villagers, regardless of age, did not joke with him. “Then you'll be pleased by our discussion.” 

Her eyebrows rose upon her forehead, curiosity shining in her dark eyes. “Oh, have you come bearing gifts, Kazekage? And it's not even my birthday.” 

“You've never told me when your birthday is.” 

“And I never shall.” She smiled at him, before turning sharply down a different hall. 

Her study was deep within the first floor of the library, far from the echoing voices of the Oratory, which was in the north-eastern wing of the library. The floor—no longer of sea-glass but of deep, obsidian-colored stone—dipped slightly downwards, pulling them farther into the library's bowels. At the far end of the hall, the dark tapestry that marked Kigen's study hung, fluttering as if on a gentle breeze. The tapestry was a deep blue-black, made of silk threads that glinted in the faint torch light, and at its center a family crest had been artfully embroidered in metallic threads. Kigen's family was one of Suna's oldest, and her crest was simple and elegant, but unusual for its minimalism. A simple circle, encompassing another circle, and another, each in a different color—gold, silver, and black. Kigen often said her family's crest was many things—the ripples of a pond, an eye of a god, the orbit of the planets—and she never held fast to any one interpretation. 

Kigen pushed the tapestry aside and opened the door, holding it open for Gaara to enter first. 

“I have coffee, if you'd like,” she offered. 

“Please,” Gaara said, taking his usual seat. Her study was cooler than the rest of the library, comfortingly so, and it was lit by torches much like the halls because there were no windows, only shelves and shelves weighed down by knowledge. 

Kigen picked up one of the cezve from a pan of hot sand, pouring its contents into Gaara's favorite cup, a small green cup with delicate butterflies flying about the lip. 

“Sweet the way you like it,” Kigen said, handing him his cup. 

Gaara liked his coffee with cinnamon and clove and cardamom, and he liked it made with sugar water that was sweeter than normal. Sometimes, though not usually, he would add a bit of cream to it. It reminded him of Kōizo, who drank so much sweet coffee that his study had always smelled of it. 

“I'm eager to hear this pleasing news,” Kigen said, once she'd made her own cup of coffee. She was not as partial to sweetness, but she never drank bitter coffee, claiming it was much too somber a flavor. Coffee without sugar, she insisted, was for funerals.

“I've decided on a new initiative,” Gaara said, then paused to blow on his coffee. “It's something I didn't have time for before, but with the current hold peace has on our way of life, I've decided to direct some of Suna's resources into researching and restoring old traditions and histories, among other things. I know that there are fewer Weavers now than there were twenty years ago, for instance, and I know you've had little resources available for archaeological digs. My father's time as Kazekage left the library to struggle, and I'd like to change that.” 

Kigen sipped her coffee delicately, her dark eyes intent on Gaara. She was one of the few people in the world who could out-stare him. 

“That _is_ quite pleasing,” Kigen finally said, setting down her finished cup. She liked to make Gaara wait, one of her many little jokes. 

“Have I ever lied to you?” 

“Once,” she said immediately. “Kōizo may have been blind, but he was no fool.” 

Gaara chuckled. The rim of his cup rested against his bottom lip, and the coffee rippled gently. “I never claimed he was.” 

“No, but you must have thought I was.” 

“I thought most people were,” Gaara countered. “But I didn't think of it as a lie. Not then.” 

“No, I don't suppose you did.” Kigen gave him an odd look, half sad and half curious, then shook herself. “This is excellent news, Kazekage. Your father's tenure was certainly not kind to us, and the war did not help. I imagine this will breathe new life into this place.” 

“I'm glad you're pleased. I'll send the first draft of the proposal to you by the end of the night. If there's anything specific you'd like to request, please let me know. And if there's anything superfluous in the proposal.” 

“I've never been shy about stating my opinion,” Kigen laughed. “But I trust you'll do right by us. You always have.” 

“I always will.” 

____________________________ 

“The first step in strengthening the peace between our nations—and the lesser nations—is understanding one another. We cannot move forward without compassion, and we cannot gain compassion without understanding. My proposal would promote cultural exchange, understanding, and respect, and in the long run would further the peace we fought so hard for.” Gaara waited, looking around the crowded circular table. 

The Eighth Plenum for Continued Peace had seen countless speeches by Kage and other village leaders, but none had earned the heavy silence Gaara's had. 

Someone cleared their throat, and Gaara's eyes snapped to the right where Oonoki sat beside his granddaughter, Kurotsuchi, who had been Iwagakure's Tsuchikage for the last three years. 

“The floor is open to questions,” Gaara finally intoned, the quiet tenor of his voice echoing around the silent hall. 

Oonoki was the first to speak, as Gaara had predicted he would be. The old man's voice creaked and broke as he spoke, a coughing fit on the horizon. “Seems a waste of resources.” 

“I'd quite agree,” the representative from Kusagakure said. “We're a small nation, Kazekage-sama. We can hardly afford to divest what little we have for the sake of a childish flight of fancy.” 

Gaara narrowed his eyes at the man. “You think me childish, Shinaimaru?” 

Shinaimaru blanched, the pupils of his moss-green eyes dilating. “I meant no such thing, Kazekage-sama. I simply would like to point out the superfluous nature of such a proposal. We're shinobi, not academics! If Kusa were to siphon funding away from our military force for the sake of this cultural exchange, we would be weakening ourselves!” 

“But we are at a time of peace,” Kōgei, Ame's leader said. Under her leadership, Amegakure was on the brink of becoming the Sixth Great Nation in the Shinobi Union, an impressive feat that had earned her incredible acclaim throughout the Union. 

“For now,” Oonoki said, before the promised coughing fit took hold of him. He hacked and heaved, his face going blotchy until he finally took back control of his lungs. Oonoki, Gaara was sure, did not have much time left on this earth. 

“Is that not the purpose of this plenum?” Gaara asked. “We've been committed to peace for eight years. Why should that change?” 

“Anything can change,” Mei said. “But we cannot afford to let our commitment to peace change. I'm in favor of the Kazekage's proposal. As it is, we've seen a huge decline since the end of the war—especially these last five years—in violence. The need for a strong military is something we made, and it's something we can unmake. What better way than by celebrating the beauty within our villages and countries?” 

“I agree with the Mizukage,” Kakashi said dully. At his side, Tsunade nodded her agreement. 

“Of course the Great Nations would agree,” Shinaimaru grumbled. “If you divest funding from your shinobi forces, what will that do to you? It won't put your villages at risk of attack—”

“The point, Shinaimaru, is that we are allies and we trust each other. Why should we attack Kusagakure? What would we have to gain?” Mei asked. 

“Land!” Shinaimaru shouted, half rising from his seat. “Trade routes, resources! Kusa may be small, but our country is filled with riches!” 

“I don't doubt it, but as your allies, if I had need of bamboo, I would strike up a trade agreement with you, not go to war.” 

“As if Kusa could stand against a Great Nation!” Oonoki wheezed. 

“That's enough!” Mifune rose to stand, drawing all eyes to him. “Oonoki, you are no longer the Tsuchikage. You are here only as an adviser to your granddaughter, and I will have you removed should anymore threats be made against the Lesser Nations.” 

Oonoki grumbled, subsiding into his chair, red in the face. 

“Now that the Kazekage has shared his proposal, we will take a vote,” Mifun finally said, eyeing Oonoki carefully. “All those in favor?” 

Hands rose into the air, one after the other. Kiri's seven representatives, Amegakure's five, Konoha's ten, Suna's five, and on it went. Some villages were divided in their vote, but by the end Gaara's proposal had earned fifty in its favor. Only thirteen were against, and seven remained undecided. 

Mifune banged his gavel against the woodblock before him. “The 'ayes' have it. The Kazekage's proposal will be accepted for further review by a smaller council of shinobi leadership. Kazekage, your Cultural Council should be selected no later than the end of the day.” 

“I already have my council,” Gaara said, pulling a sheaf of paper from his stack. 

“Perfect. Please arrange your first meeting. The Union will hear from you again at the end of next week. Meeting adjourned.” 

____________________________ 

It took three months to finalize everything, but by the beginning of the year, Gaara's Cultural Council had the full support of the Shinobi Union, and his proposal was finally ready to be put into action. 

It had been a long, trying three months, filled with journeys back and forth between Suna and the Shinobi Union, the Shinobi Union and Konoha, Konoha and Iwa, Iwa and Kumo, Kumo and Kiri. By the end of those long three months, Gaara was sick to death of traveling. 

“It'll all be worth it,” Kigen told him over lunch, the day before everything was set in motion. 

“Of course,” Gaara said, tired in a way he'd never been before, and wishing for the first time in many years that he could sleep. He sipped delicately at his coffee, staring absently at the books and scrolls behind Kigen. 

“You're doing the shinobi world a favor,” she reminded him, not for the first time. “We would do well to know our history better, to remember what we were before we were shinobi. I am sure the other nations have beautiful histories of their own.” 

“They do, and sharing our histories will help us fill in the blanks in our own.” 

“I imagine this could also foster enough goodwill that certain artifacts will be returned to their rightful owners.” 

“That is my hope,” Gaara confirmed. “I have something from Iwagakure that I believe the First had stolen—who can say who started it. Either he stole this relic from them in retaliation, or they stole from us in retaliation, but in the end, everything will be set to rights.” 

“You are a better Kazekage than Suna deserves. Kōizo always said you would do great things for our village, but I doubt even he could have guessed at just how great you would be.” 

Gaara inclined his head in thanks, closing his eyes and inhaling his coffee. “His spirit guides me.”

“As the Wind guides us all,” Kigen agreed. She lifted her cup. “To Kōizo's memory.” 

____________________________ 

Iwagakure had stolen a tapestry from Suna's early history during the First Kazekage's rule. Sunagakure had stolen a stone key, exquisitely crafted and that rumor said unlocked a great treasure. 

The journals of the First Tsuchikage confirmed that he'd stolen Suna's tapestry in an effort to learn her secrets, believing the tapestry to be a map of a hidden city below Suna. The First Kazekage had not kept a journal, but there were documents of a mission to Iwagakure that coincided with the disappearance of the stone key. Gaara did not care who had instigated the mutual thievery, only that the tapestry be returned to its rightful place. 

Kurotsuchi felt similarly about Iwa's lost key. 

“We shoulda done this ages ago,” Kurotsuchi joked, later that night after the ceremony that had witnessed the Returning of Things. She was pink in the face and smiling blearily up at the canvas ceiling of the Kazekage's estates private garden. The sandpit was hot, and the smell of food and coffee and alcohol curled on the desert air. Kankurō snickered into his own cup of sake, blearily eyeing Kurotsuchi. 

“To rebuilding trust and appreciating each one another's culture,” Temari slurred, less eloquent than Gaara could ever remember her being. This was her first drink in a year, having not had any alcohol until after the birth of her first child. Shikamaru was watching their daughter, less interested in drinking than his wife, and too tired from the day's events to celebrate late into the night. 

“Here, here!” Kurotsuchi crowd. Some of her sake sloshed from her cup, splattering onto her chest. “Oops.” 

Kankurō was quick to hand her a cloth napkin, grinning crookedly. “Careful.” 

“Your wiles won't work on me, Kankurō of the Black String,” she teased. 

Kankurō raised an eyebrow, laughing into his cup. “What makes you think I'm tryna use 'em on ya?” 

Temari barked a laugh, shaking her head. She set her cup down to point dramatically at her brother. “You, dear little brother, have the _worst_ reputation.” 

Kankurō gasped, mock offended. “And what's so bad about being known for my ability to please a woman?” 

Temari gagged. “Your abilities are none of my business. I'm just saying, you are the _slut_ of the family.” 

“Should I change my name then? Kankurō the Slut? Or maybe Kankurō of the Sluts?” He doubled over laughing, falling back onto the plush cushion he'd been lounging in before. 

“I will disown you,” Temari said primly. “You can't be called that. What will your niece think?” 

“Your daughter's first word is gonna be 'slut', you mark my words,” Kurotsuchi said, giggling. 

“If that happens, the Wind curse you, little brother.” Temari sighed heavily. “On that note, I think I have drunk far too much. I am going to excuse myself, but Kurotsuchi, please know you have my blessing in beating the shit out of my brother—that one, not that one—if he gets handsy.” 

“Oi! I ain't no fuckin' creep! I only sleep with women who _want_ me.” 

“Do women usually want you?” Kurotsuchi teased. “If I had my pick of men, it wouldn't be you.” 

“You sayin' you don't got your pick?” 

“I'm saying I've got my pick of _women_ ,” she said, and tapped her glass against Kankurō's as he whooped. 

“Ugh,” Temari said. “Now Kankurō's going to have an ally in womanizing.” 

“Excuse me!” Kurotsuchi said as Kankurō shouted, “Hey!”

“Good night, Temari,” Gaara said as she disappeared inside the house. 

“Night,” she called. 

“This really has been a wonderful day,” Kurotsuchi said, suddenly serious. “You really had the right idea with your proposal, Gaara.” 

“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head. He'd only had one cup of sake at the start of the evening, and had since been drinking tea to settle his stomach. “I am eager to hear what the Keepers have to say about the tapestry, once they've finished restoring it.” 

“Me too. Never knew there were rumors about a hidden city under Suna. Think it's true?” 

Gaara hummed a noncommittal answer into his cup. He didn't need a tapestry to tell him what lay beneath his village. 

“Who cares about some ol' city,” Kankurō said. His head fell back against the cushion, and he stared up at the sky just peeking from behind the edge of the canvas canopy. 

“Aren't you excited about all this?” 

“Sure am,” he said. “Got a whole buncha kids from other villages eager to learn 'bout puppetry from us. Can't say I'm gonna be sharing our best secrets or nuthin', but I think it'll be good for those kids. Ya know, give 'em an outlet besides fighting.” 

“Especially now that we're pushing to make fighting obsolete,” Kurotsuchi said. “It's strange, isn't it? To think of ourselves as shinobi when there's no need for bloodshed and war.” 

“We may still have a need for war,” Gaara warned. 

“But you're the one—”

“I want peace, as much as any of us do. But I am not ignorant to the folly of man. We have a long way to go before war is no longer a possibility, and we are not the only ones in this world, either.” 

“I've heard all about your foreign outreach. Have you been anywhere interesting recently?” 

“Not this year.”

“Last place we went was Phoenix Kingdom, yeah? I liked it there.”

“You liked the women,” Gaara pointed out. 

“Hey, I experienced plenty of culture while I was there.” 

“I”m sure,” Gaara murmured. “Phoenix Kingdom was beautiful, but my favorite is still Dusk Country, far west of here.”

Kankurō snickered behind his hand, giving Gaara a look. “Yeah, lil' brother, and why is that?” 

Gaara narrowed his eyes, glaring at Kankurō as he sipped his tea. “Because it was beautiful.” 

Kankurō's knowing laugh piqued Kurotsuchi's interest, but she at least had more tact than his brother. “Farthest outside of shinobi lands I've ever been is Iron, and that barely counts, I think. If you do anymore foreign outreach, let me know? I'd love to join you sometime.” 

“Absolutely,” Gaara promised. “I'd love to encourage the other Kage to do the same, but there's time enough. Right now, I think we should focus on ourselves, on the bonds we already have.” 

“To focusing on our bonds,” Kurotsuchi said, raising her glass. 

“To restoring trust,” Gaara added. 

They clinked their glasses together, the sound echoing like bells around them. 

____________________________ 

The tapestry was a beautiful piece of art—as long as the tallest ceiling in the blue halls of Suna's chaitya, and as wide as the great doors of the God's Chaitya. It had taken years to weave, and would take months to restore. Gaara oversaw the restoration of the tapestry when he had time to spare, but he often didn't, having to focus on the Cultural Council and the next steps of his proposal. 

The next step—following the continuation of Returning Ceremonies—was the exchange of shinobi. 

Initially, the immersion program had been met with disdain by the Cultural Council, with only support from Temari and Shikamaru, but as their meetings had progressed, interest in the program grew. It was a chance to learn about another village in an organic way, to connect with a country and a people one had been conditioned to see as potential enemies. It was, in Gaara's mind, one of the most important steps to building understanding between the nations. 

Once the immersion program had been announced, a month after the first Returning Ceremony, Gaara was flooded with applications. There was an overwhelming outpouring of interest from shinobi and civilians alike, vying to travel abroad to experience something new and exciting on the nation's ryo.

With the influx of applications from Suna's people alone, Gaara was forced to create an internal committee on the Cultural Council to handle it all. The Cultural Immersion Committee—or CIC, as they took to calling themselves—was headed by Shikamaru and Temari, who claimed the large, unused dining hall in the Kazekage's estate as the Committee's headquarters. This resulted in the Kazekage's estate being more crowded than usual, with foreign shinobi from all over coming and going during the day, and often well into the evening. 

“Here,” Shikamaru said with a heavy sigh, dropping a tottering stack of approved applications onto Gaara's desk. It had taken almost two months to sort through all the applications, and would have taken longer, but Temari ran the Committee like a fine-tuned instrument. 

“I didn't expect you to finish so quickly,” Gaara said, picking up the first application, which had been stamped with the pale blue emblem of Kirigakure. 

“Temari wouldn't let anyone slack off,” Shikamaru said with a wry smile. “Not even me.” 

“At least you had Ruri to use as an excuse from time to time,” Gaara said, a smile of his own at the corner of his mouth as he began sifting through the stack. 

“She's not enough of a handful.” Shikamaru tapped the stack. “These are yours, by the way. The bottom half is all the applicants who want to come here.” In between the stack, a blue fabric-tab had been placed, separating the documents. 

“So the top are Suna's shinobi who signed up for the program,” he confirmed, separating the stack. He picked up the first application from the stack of Suna's future guests, his eye catching on a familiar name, drawing a smile from him. “And these are all the shinobi coming here.” 

“Yup. Some familiar faces, too. Kakashi's making Naruto do this.” 

Gaara snorted. “Come here?” 

“Not here, at least not yet. He's going to Iwa, first. Kakashi's got him doing three months in each village.” 

“Really?” 

“He's getting sick of waiting on Naruto to be ready to take over, and kicking him out of the village is his way of taking a break from training Naruto.” 

Gaara hid an amused smile behind the application in his hand. “And I'm sure Naruto is loving this idea.” 

“Oh, he's over the moon,” Shikamaru said with an amused roll of his eyes. 

“It'll do him good,” Gaara said, setting the application back onto its stack so that the bold characters of Rock Lee's name stared up at the ceiling of his office. 

“As long as it doesn't cause an international incident,” Shikamaru joked. “Anyway, I better get back. Temari's still got the Committee working overtime, and if I don't get there soon with everyone's lunch, it'll be a bloodbath.” 

“Good luck.” 

The door closed behind Shikamaru, leaving Gaara with the daunting task of sorting out transfer papers and visas for everyone of his people who was going abroad.  
____________________________ 

“Taking a break from the perilous task of preparing for Suna's new arrivals?” Kigen's voice echoed around the hall, light with mirth. 

“I wanted to see how the tapestry was coming.” 

“We've had our ups and downs. I wish Iwa had taken better care of it when it had been in their possession, though.” 

Gaara watched the Keepers in the hall below as they worked on restoring the tapestry's luster. The circular room echoed with the quiet chatter of the Keepers, the noise rising up like the buzzing of bees to the observation deck where Gaara and Kigen stood. 

“You made a request for an order of silk. Is there a problem with the library's store of spider's silk?” Gaara asked, his gaze flicking to the top of the tapestry where a woman was working on strengthening it's edges. 

“No, not at all. We've simply discovered that spider's silk was not the only silk used in this particular piece.” 

“Odd.” Gaara made his way towards the stairs, determined to take a closer look at the tapestry. 

“Spider's silk was more difficult to obtain prior to the rule of shinobi,” Kigen explained. “We had our traps, of course, but there was still a large risk going into a spider's den to harvest silk. Silkworms would have been far less difficult to manage.”

“I see. I can contact Silk Province. The governor in the north has been after a trade deal with us.” 

“Then I'm sure he'll be thrilled by this.” 

Gaara made his way down the winding, stone staircase, and the tapestry's silver and gold threads that had already been restored to their vibrant luster caught the light bleeding in from the sunroof as he moved closer. The tapestry—which was longer than the room was wide—was carefully laid out so that the top end, which had seen the most damage, could be worked on first. The Keepers—all expert weavers and spinners—worked with deft fingers, filling in patches of frayed silk with care, backing the weak edges of the tapestry with thick cottons, or cleaning dirt from the ancient fabric with a delicate hand. The tapestry's color had returned in parts, so that the cobalt sky shown with stars. 

“Kazekage-sama,” the head weaver greeted, bowing and handing him a pair of gloves. 

“Have you figured out what we can do about the hole?” Gaara asked, gesturing to the hole a quarter of the way down the tapestry. 

“We're searching for references to the tapestry in our library, but right now we can only guess at what was meant to be there.” 

The tapestry was dingy and faded, and the hole in question was singed around the edges, ruining any chance at piecing together the missing part of the story. It was only through luck that the tapestry's top hadn't been separated from its bottom, the damage was so thorough. The burn had most likely occurred during the initial theft, while the fading color and the dirt had come from years of neglect and sunlight. 

At the top, the tapestry showed the night sky, in various colors and littered with planets and stars. As the tapestry unfolded and the story came to life, the sky changed: the sun appeared, a glorious, golden orb, then transforming until it took shape and a person fell from the heavens. But then the hole interrupted the tale, large and intrusive and blotting out a whole chunk of Suna's history. 

“We think it's a love story,” Kigen said, coming up behind Gaara.

“A love story?” Gaara's eyes trailed down the length of the tapestry until he reached its carefully folded middle, just below the hole. 

“There are words here,” the head weaver explained, pointing to the fraying edges of the tapestry. “Kigen recognized the word 'love' here, but we're still working on restoring the rest.” 

“And you're sure it's 'love'?” Gaara asked. 

Kigen smiled. “Isn't it always love?” 

____________________________ 

Suna's main road, spiraling towards the heart of the village, was decorated in honor of Suna's new arrivals. The color of every nation and village had been painted on the walls of houses and businesses, so that the main road had become a rainbow. Great care had been taken to fashion every villages' symbol from blown glass, and then hiding them in the floating glass that hung above the streets. New tapestries had been hung over balconies and from windows, stamped with the Ningo word for 'unity' or 'friendship'. Feathers from the white phoenix, Wind Country's national symbol, had been dyed various colors and turned into fans to hang in windows and doorways, as though a great wedding were on the horizon. 

“Don't you look handsome?” Temari teased from the doorway. 

Gaara turned to see his sister, dressed in the finery of the Kazekage family. None of them had ever bothered with such formal attire before, but the purpose of the exchange program was to learn about the traditions and peoples of each village, not just the histories the shinobi had made. 

“I feel foolish,” he admitted, holding his arms up to show off the incredible embroidery of his kaftan. It was the same saturated blue as the chaitya at the heart of Suna, spun with so much silver and gold at the hems that the whole thing felt heavy and glittered in the light. “I think these sleeves are even bigger than my robe of office.” 

Temari snorted. “You do look as though you're about to take off through the window.” 

“At least it's not feathered.” 

“Not unless you were planning on getting married today.” 

“You didn't have feathers when you got married.” 

“I did, actually,” she admitted. “I had a fan made, but we didn't want a big wedding. But _I'm_ not the Kazekage. If I were, we'd have suffered through all the traditions.” 

“I can't imagine Shikamaru going along with that.” 

Temari grinned. “You'd be surprised what my husband is willing to do for me. Come on, let's go before we're too late.” 

She looped her arm through his, her hand catching against the long sleeve of his kaftan for a moment. Her own costume—a traditional deel made of silk, and tied with a sash—wasn't as elaborate as Gaara's, but it still spoke to her place in the Kazekage family. It was shot through with the same blue as Gaara's kaftan, though only at the hems of its long sleeves. Shikamaru would most likely be wearing Temari's twin, leaving Kankurō to wear the deel with the blue skirts. 

Downstairs, the sound of cooing echoed from the entrance hall, followed by a gurgling giggle. 

“That's my girl,” Shikamaru praised quietly. 

“She's gonna steal the show,” Kankurō drawled. 

“Doesn't she always,” Temari said as they arrived. Ruri's brown eyes lit up at the sight of her, and she squealed and stretched her arms out, babbling inanely. “Does Ruri-chan want mama?” 

“Doesn't she always?” Shikamaru asked, passing the baby to her. 

“You're secretly her favorite,” Temari promised. “That's why you're the one wearing the sling.” 

“We ready?” Kankurō asked, fiddling with the hem of one of his sleeves, which was golden the way the body of Temari's and Shikamaru's deels were.

“Are we running late?” Temari asked with a sly smile. 

“Yes,” Kankurō said, giving Gaara a pointed look. 

“Then we're ready.” 

“I'm not always late,” Gaara argued, just to be contrary. 

“Yes, Gaara, you are.” 

The heart of the village was teeming with bodies when Gaara and his family arrived, twenty minutes late. Music echoed from the chaitya's halls, while the devotees stood outside with ribbons of cobalt blue or white silk waving from their hands. The smell of fresh food—goat and lamb and chicken, cactus and onions and garlic, the fruit of various cactus, and coffee—blanketed the village's center in comforting fumes. The sights, sounds, and smells of Suna were the epitome of joyous in honor of the new arrivals. 

“Kazekage-sama!” a chorus of voices shouted over laughter and music. 

“That's him?” someone whispered nearby in the heavy and smooth accent of Lightning Country. 

A whisper rose up, following Gaara and his family as they made their way to the chaitya, where a podium had been erected and Suna's council was waiting. Kigen and Baki stood shoulder-to-shoulder, matching looks of fond exasperation on their faces. 

“On time as ever, Kazekage,” Kigen greeted. 

“I'd hate to keep everyone waiting.” 

Gaara stepped onto the platform, now towering over the crowd. A hush came over the gathered masses, rolling backwards through the crowd like a wave. Every road leading to the heart of the village was crowded with people, so that Gaara couldn't see the streets of his village at all. 

“For those who've passed through Suna's gates for the first time: Welcome!” he said, and his voice boomed across the village, echoing from speakers all around the village center. “For those returning to Suna: We welcome you back! Today marks the start of a new age for shinobi: an age of understanding and compassion. It is my hope that as we share with each other our cultures, our languages, our stories and histories, that we learn to appreciate and value our differences and also our sameness! None of us here today have lived peaceful lives. We have all fought to survive, for ourselves and our villages, but it is time to set down our weapons and extend our hands to one another, not in battle, but in friendship.

“Today, we wash the blood off each others hands, so that future generations never need wash it from theirs. I have been Kazekage for eleven years, and many say I have done great things in that time. There is much I can be proud of, but this moment, this experience, this time is what I want my legacy to be: a legacy of peace. I hope everyone who has come to Sunagakure learns to love this village and her people as much as I do. May the Desert show you Her grace, may the Wind forever guide you, and may the Sun always keep you warm.” 

A resonant cheer went up, the sound so loud and full the very walls of the valley appeared to shake. Gaara rejoined his family, and joined in welcoming Suna's new arrivals. 

____________________________ 

“I was surprised to see you'd applied for this,” Gaara intoned, standing directly behind Rock Lee. 

“Kazekage-sama!” Lee whirled around, throwing his arms around Gaara and pulling him into a rib-crushing hug. He stopped short, dropping Gaara back to his feet. “Forgive me! I should have asked first.” 

“Think nothing of it,” Gaara said, gently massaging his side where he was sure he'd heard a rib crack. “We are friends, after all.” 

“Of course!” Lee's smile widened, his teeth shining like the precious pearls they imported from Gyokukakushin. “I just thought—what with the exchange program and all these new people—well, I was not sure it would be appropriate, given my position and all.” 

“Your position as my long-time friend? I don't see anything inappropriate about that.” 

Lee laughed, warm like the coffee in Gaara's hand, and just as sweet. “You are being intentionally obtuse.” 

“I like being contrary,” Gaara reminded him, sipping his coffee delicately. “How are you enjoying the celebration?” 

“It is wonderful!” Lee wouldn't have thought otherwise, and if he had, he wouldn't have complained. “Suna has never looked so beautiful.” 

“Until now, I'd say you'd hardly seen enough of her to know.” 

“I have offended you,” Lee said, his smile dropping slightly. 

“Hardly,” Gaara assured. “But you'll have plenty of time to get to know this village now. You'll be here the whole year, I assume.” 

“I will! I was so excited when I heard about the program! I could not wait for the chance to learn new forms of taijutsu—”

“This isn't just about becoming a stronger shinobi,” Gaara reminded him. 

Lee held his hands up, shaking his head so quickly his hair flew about his face. “No, no, of course not! I am interested in learning all I can, but that was the first thought I had!” 

“I saw you applied to work with the weapons smiths. Was that not motivated by your profession?” 

“It was, but it is also because of Tenten! Her grandmother passed recently, and she has taken over as the matriarch of her clan, but her family is so small these days, I thought by learning how to forge weapons I might help her!” 

“So you'll take Suna's secrets with you for your friend's family business?” Gaara teased, raising bare brows in query. Lee's reaction was a predictable flush. His large eyes widened in alarm and he stumbled to form an apology. Gaara chuckled. 

“You are teasing me again.” Lee's face was still red, but he subsided, pouting like a petulant child. 

“It is far too easy.” 

“So you say.” 

“By the way, Temari will expect you to come by for dinner before the week is out. Plus, you haven't met Ruri yet.” 

Lee squealed in delight, leaning into Gaara's personal space, the smell of spices on his tongue. “Ruri-chan! I had completely forgotten! I have seen so many photos, I had not even realized I had not met her yet! How old is she now?” 

“Five months.” 

“Five mo—oh my goodness! I have missed so much already! Is she already talking?” 

“Just incoherent babbling, but I think Shikamaru's hoping she'll say her first words by six months.” 

Lee chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course, he does. Are they only teaching her Ningo?” 

“Hardly. Shikamaru's already fluent in Sunago and Kazego, so we alternate. Mostly between Sunago and Ningo, though she still hears some Kazego.” 

“No Higo, I take it?” 

“Shikamaru said there wasn't much point. Higo and Ningo are hardly that different.” 

“That is very true,” Lee said thoughtfully. “Personally, I could never tell the difference between the two, but I always assumed it was because language was just not my forte.” 

“You're a man of action, Rock Lee,” Gaara intoned, narrowing his eyes in amusement. 

Lee flushed, grinning with pride. “I do enjoy a good book, every now and then.”

“Then you should visit Suna's library. I could show you around sometime.” 

“I would like that,” Lee said, his voice suddenly quiet, almost intimate with the noise around them. 

“Tomorrow? And you'll come by for dinner after.” 

“That sounds lovely.” 

At the center of the crowd, a loud cheer went up, followed by the deep notes of an old song from Suna's past. The crowd began to move, people cheering and laughing and singing as a dance circle started. 

“It looks as though we're already sharing our culture,” Gaara told Lee. “Shall we?” 

Lee followed him through the crowd, moving through the sea of people as though he were on a mission. He was quick and agile and light on his feet, almost like he were dancing. He didn't bump into a single person, despite the closeness of the crowd, nor step on a single foot. 

At the center of the gathered masses, a song echoed, humming and crooning, as though the wind itself had voice. Glass wind instruments shown in the hands of a few older locals, and a drum had been placed at the center, so that people danced around it. There was a loud cry as the song reached a crescendo, and then the warbling notes changed as another song began. More instruments appeared, and the music swelled. 

“This is incredible,” Lee said, his voice directly in Gaara's ear. 

“It is,” Gaara agreed, mesmerized. He'd never seen any of Suna's dances, always on the outskirts of social life within the village, first because he was Suna's monster and then because he was the Kazekage. Now, a new life was breathed into him, filling his lungs like the song filled the air; expanding like the circle of dancers; vibrating through him like each beat on the skin of the drum. His eyes drank in every detail of the crowd: the swirling colors of the locals' deels and kaftans and headscarves, the dancing ribbons and twirling feather-fans being tossed in the air; the jangling and glittering jewelry; the way each body moved together, like sharing secrets. 

“Do you know how this dance goes?” Lee asked. Gaara looked up to find Lee's eyes darting back and forth, tracking the movements of the dancers. 

“No, I've never danced before.” 

“It does not look so hard.” 

Gaara disagreed, but his skills had never been of the body. He was not physical the way Lee was, he could not move like Lee. He controlled the world with a flick of his wrist or the careful bend of a finger. But Lee had never been so contained. He didn't control the world, he pushed against it—against its gravity and its force. He made the world bend to him, so he didn't have to bend to it, and he did so with muscle and heart. 

A local woman twirled from the dancers, making her way towards Gaara, her eyes lit like stars in a black sky. She bowed to him, and then her eyes, warm with mirth, caught Lee, who was buzzing like electricity beside Gaara. 

“Would you dance with me?” she asked Lee, holding out her hand. She held a feather-fan in her other hand, dyed the color of the sky with streaks of sunshine woven through as metallic threads. The fan indicated that she was unwed and of marrying age. 

“I would love to!” Lee took her hand, and allowed himself to be pulled away from Gaara. He turned to wave at Gaara, grinning as he joined her in celebration. 

Lee danced like the music lived within him. He moved as though he knew the steps by heart, as though he were of Suna. His first dance partner lost him to another, who lost him to another, and on it went. Lee danced and danced, his forest green suit and orange leg warmers marking him as a foreigner, while the rest of him praised Suna as his home. 

It was his home. At least for now. 

____________________________ 

Lee stared up at the library with his mouth hanging open, his eyes shining with wonder.

“I never realized this was a library,” he said in awe. He'd traded in his jumpsuit for a plain brown Sunese tunic and trousers, less formal than the deels or kaftans worn the night before. He'd also donned a shemagh, dyed a pale blue and patterned with dots of white thread.

“What did you think it was?”

Lee shrugged, finally tearing his gaze from the massive building to look at Gaara. He grinned, lopsided and cheeky. “The first time I saw it, I thought you lived here.” 

Gaara snorted. “You're joking.” 

“No, honest! I had never been to Suna before, and you had just become Kazekage, and I thought 'that building is so impressive, it must be where the Kazekage lives', because nothing else made sense to me.” 

“It made sense to you that I'd live here?” Gaara asked. “How? What would I possibly need this much room for?” 

“I guess, in hindsight, it does seem a bit... extravagant.” 

“'A bit',” Gaara repeated. “Rock Lee, when have you ever known me to be extravagant?” 

“You were last night,” Lee said, voice almost light and that cheeky grin back on his face. 

“It was a special occasion.” 

“I liked what you were wearing,” Lee said quickly. “But I could never wear something like that. I would be afraid to get it dirty or to rip it!” 

Gaara flicked his wrist and the heavy doors of the library slowly opened, revealing the glittering entrance hall. Sand skittered away from the doors as they fell into place, waiting for Lee and Gaara to enter. 

“We could find you something in spider's silk. It's strong,” Gaara said, stepping inside.

Lee was rooted to his spot outside, staring into the hall as though he'd never seen a beautiful thing in all his life. His eyes filled with tears, which glistened with the colorful lights from within the halls. 

“Are you all right?” Gaara asked, concerned by the tears hanging on Lee's lashes. 

“It is... so beautiful,” he said, his voice low and thick, as though at any moment he would start to sob. 

“It's called Āina-kāri—the walls. The sea-glass in the floor is from Jade Valley Province in the south, and the windows were crafted here in Suna.” 

“I—I have never—it is extraordinary.”

“Suna is an extraordinary place.” 

Lee followed Gaara in silent reverence, as though he were afraid to speak and disturb the beauty around them. He walked in circles, twirling this way and that, his eyes jumping from wall to wall, from floor to ceiling to window, and back around again. Gaara watched him from the doors leading into the library, leaning against their solid wood with his arms crossed over his chest. They had plenty of time for Lee to bask in the beauty of the hall, but Temari still expected them by five to help with dinner preparations. 

“I fear the rest of the library may underwhelm you after this,” Gaara said, finally breaking the silence. 

Lee jumped, turning to stare at Gaara from the center of the hall, his face awash with the colors from the glass in the windows and his eyes reflecting like the mirrors in the wall. He looked both out of place and like he belonged, like he were a missing piece of glass from a window pain, but one that no longer fit for years of being somewhere else. 

“I doubt that,” Lee said, almost breathless as he stared across the hall at Gaara. He made his way back to Gaara's side, light rippling across him with every step. 

Gaara pushed the doors open with his back, keeping his eyes rooted to Lee's face. The smell of old books and scrolls gusted through the now open door, and a gentle breeze ruffled the ends of Gaara's hair. Lee peered into the hall, his expression one of deep confusion now. 

“The rest of the library isn't like this. It would be distracting.” 

“Ah, of course.” Lee sounded disappointed. 

“Plus, the light would damage the books. This library is about preserving things, so beyond this room, the only windows are in the halls and the Oratory—”

“What is that?” 

“The Oratory? It's where our oral tradition is preserved. Before written text, Suna's indigenous people had a strong culture of oral story-telling, and when shinobi came some of it was lost. But the Oratory is how we've held on to so much. The Weavers tell stories to those who wish to listen and share those stories outside of these halls, and they train the next generation of Weavers. When I was a child, my only friend was a Weaver. His name was Kōizo. I met him not long after my uncle's death.” 

“I did not know that,” Lee said quietly as they made their way through the first hall. 

“I don't talk about my childhood much. None of us do.” 

“That is true.” Something in Lee's voice shifted, a sadness that Gaara didn't hope to entertain for long. There was plenty of time for sad stories between them, now was not it. 

“Kōizo was old and blind when I met him, and he was my friend for only a few short weeks before his death, but he was the reason I kept coming here. It was something of a sanctuary for me.” 

“This seems an odd place for a child,” Lee muttered, looking around the dim hall. 

“I was hardly a normal child.” Gaara avoided words like 'monster' and 'demon' in Lee's presence. For whatever reason, when he referred to himself in this way, Lee always took it personally, as though the mere fact of it were offensive to him. He often wondered—worried, even—that it was because it reminded Lee of their match. 

“Did you read a lot of books then?” 

“I did. As many as I could. I thought one day I'd read everything in here.” He shook his head, a wry smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. “It was a childish fancy, but I did read more than your average child.” 

“I did not read much as a child—only my homework. I always had a hard time with it, and no one was particularly interested in helping me. The matron at the orphanage always told me I was too stupid for her to waste her time on.” 

Gaara's anger rose, quick and unexpected, like a viper that had been hiding beneath a rock. His sand rattled in his gourd for a brief, tense second. “She sounds horrible.” 

“She was,” Lee confirmed. “I was glad to finally get my own apartment after I became a Genin, but I never did learn to love reading. I do read—obviously, and there are some books I like—but I still find it difficult.” 

“I could help you.” Gaara hardly had the time to spare, but Lee was a friend and he would gladly spend whatever time with him he could while Lee was living in Suna. He turned down another hall, guiding Lee towards the first hall of books. 

“I would hate to impose.” 

“I've offered, it's not an imposition.” 

“But—” A flush rose up the back of Lee's neck, working its way up into his face until his cheeks were rosy. 

“What?” 

“It is just... I am almost thirty. It is—well, it is embarrassing.” 

“I hardly find it shameful. And it sounds as though you had little to no help as a child.” Gaara stopped before an empty doorway, the molding of the arch inlaid with polished stones in intricate patterns. Inside the room, the walls were covered with books, reaching up to the high ceiling. 

“If you are sure,” Lee said, hesitatingly. He followed Gaara inside, his jaw dropping as he took in the room. 

“If you find a book in here you'd like to read, tell me. No one is allowed to remove anything from the library except my family.” 

“Why not?” 

“As I said, this is a library for preserving knowledge. The things housed here live here. There are far too many pieces of history here, and if we let people borrow books, we'd likely lose precious relics of Suna's and Wind's past.” 

“But as Kazekage, you can take what you like?” 

“Within reason. There are things even I can't take, and I wouldn't wish to do so—things that are so delicate they're kept in glass cases, things that need to be handled with gloves. But this room doesn't house anything so fragile, and if you see something you like, I'll tell Kigen.” 

“Kigen?” 

“She's the Overseer. She runs the library, and has for, I believe, its entire history.” 

“She would not be upset with you for letting me borrow a book?” 

“I trust you. That will be enough for her.” 

Lee ducked his head, hiding a smile that was unlike any Gaara had ever seen on his face before. It was soft, the way rose petals were, but intense like the way tears had sprung to his eyes at the sight of the entrance hall. It held something secret in its grasp, something that begged to be known, yet shied away from being known. Gaara wanted Lee to look at him head on, so he could decipher that smile, but when Lee looked at him next, it was gone. It had morphed into his usual joy, and that was something Gaara was familiar with. That did not need dissecting.

“What sort of books are in here?” Lee asked, approaching a shelf. 

“All sorts. Histories, poetry, art, language. I've read just about everything in this room, I think.” 

“You cannot be serious! There is no way!” Lee's voice echoed around the silent room, bouncing off the stone like pebbles on a pond. 

“I had no friends and far too much free time as a child. After Yashamaru, my father stopped training me, and I had no tutor at home, so I came here. Kōizo had started teaching me where Yashamaru had left off, and when he died I just... kept going.” 

“What was your favorite book?” Lee asked, eagerly. 

Gaara thought for a long moment, looking around the massive chamber. His eyes scanned the shelves, mentally filing through his memory. His gaze alighted on a familiar binding, and he nodded his head, sending his sand slithering towards the shelf where a book bound in leather as blue as Gaara's kaftan the night before rested. 

“This was the first book I read after Kōizo died.” His sand dropped the book into Lee's waiting hands. 

“You read this?” Lee asked, voice rising with suppressed shock. 

“Why? Is something wrong?” 

“It is just—” Lee stared at the book, opening and closing his mouth. “It is so large.” 

“Like I said, I had a lot of free time.” 

Lee straightened, pressing his mouth into a determined line. “I will do my best to read this, Kazekage-sama. Even if it takes me the whole year!” 

Gaara chuckled, shaking his head. “This isn't a mission, Rock Lee.” 

Lee looked down at the book's face, touching his fingertips to its faded title. “Yes, it is.” 

“What?” Gaara asked, stepping closer. 

“Nothing! So, what other rooms are there?”

____________________________ 

They spent the entire day in the library and were late returning to the Kazekage's estate for dinner preparations. 

“I should have known I couldn't trust you to be on time,” Temari muttered, looking up from Ruri, who was busy suckling at her breast. “I hope this doesn't bother you, Lee.” 

“Nonsense!” Lee said, though he was red in the face and doing his best to avoid looking at Temari's exposed breast. “It is—it is perfectly natural! And—and a beautiful expression of the bond between a mother and her child! You should not worry about me! Please!” 

Temari snorted, rolling her eyes skyward. “Thanks for that.” 

“Are the others outside?” 

“Shikamaru was just starting to warm the coals. We thought we'd eat outside, since we've got a guest.” 

“Where's Kankurō?” 

“In the pantry.” 

“Told sis you were gonna be late,” Kankurō said, announcing his arrival into the kitchen. 

“Well, excuse me for thinking Lee would instill a little punctuality into our brother.” 

“Yeah, right,” Kankurō said with a laugh. “Nothin's ever gonna do that.” 

“I'm not hopeless,” Gaara said. 

“You are,” Temari and Kankurō said simultaneously. 

“I am sorry I was not able to be more punctual, Temari-san. I was a bit overwhelmed by the library.” 

“I can't blame you, Lee. It's an amazing place, and it's not like you've ever had the chance to go before. You're usually in and out of Suna so fast, we barely have time for dinners with you.” 

“Not anymore!” Lee said happily. “You will have the pleasure of my company for a whole year—I mean, if you would like. I do not want to impose—”

“Impose my ass, Bowl-Cut. By the end of the year, you'll be practically family.” 

Lee's eyes filled with tears, not for the second or even third time that day, and he smiled at Kankurō. “Thank you, that is very kind of you to say!” 

“Don't start blubberin' on me, Bowl-Cut. None of us is about to start crying over you, not even Temari.” 

_“Excuse me,”_ Temari snapped. 

“What? You were the one that was crying over _nothin'_ just last week.” 

“I'm _hormonal_ , you jackass. I just had a baby!” 

“That was five months ago!” 

Ruri made a fussy little sound, and Temari's nipple popped from her mouth. “Great, now look what you did.” 

“She's just being sensitive,” Kankurō said, but he reached for Ruri, taking her from Temari so she could redress herself.

“She's a baby,” Temari said, only half exasperated. This was a common enough affair that Gaara barely batted an eye, but Lee was watching on tenterhooks, looking for all the world as though he were trying to decide if he should jump in to defend Temari or if that would offend her, because she could certainly handle herself. 

Ruri gave a little cough, and Kankurō quickly adjusted her against his shoulder, bouncing her and patting her back, before continuing on as if nothing had happened. “Yeah, well, she'll have to toughen up if she's gonna be Kazekage someday. Ain't that right, lil' girl?” 

Ruri burped directly into Kankurō's face, then gave a pleased giggle, flailing her little arms. 

“That's my girl,” Kankurō said with a laugh. 

“Lee, do you want to meet Ruri now she's done eating?” 

“I would love to!” Lee said so quickly it was clear he'd been eager for the faux-argument to end. He approached Kankurō cautiously, as though he were approaching an aggressive dog. “Um... I—how do I hold her?” 

“Here,” Kankurō said gruffly, placing Ruri right into Lee's arms. “Just like that. She's big enough you don't gotta be careful of her head—I mean, you still gotta be careful, but she's got more strength in her neck now so she can hold it up on her own.” 

Ruri stared up into Lee's face, her black eyes shining with curiosity, almost as wide as Lee's. She gurgled, flexing her little fingers at him, reaching up towards his shemagh. 

“Hello, Ruri-chan,” Lee said quietly, voice dropping at least ten decibels. He didn't move a muscle as he held her, keeping so still he might not have so much as been breathing. “My name is Rock Lee.” 

Ruri gave a delighted little squeal, reached up, and ripped the shemagh right from Lee's head before stuffing it into her mouth. She babbled delightedly around the fabric, staring up at Lee with a smile on her face. 

“Oh, well, then you can keep that,” Lee said, blinking down at her in surprise. “Although, you should probably not put that in your mouth—”

“Don't worry. She's had worse in there,” Temari said, offhandedly. She rose from her seat, reaching out to prise the fabric from her daughter's hands. “Who's the strongest little girl I know? Is that you, Ruri?” 

Ruri giggled and clapped her hands, babbling in response to her mother's questions. 

“She is so precious,” Lee whispered. “She looks a lot like you, Temari-san.” 

Temari smiled, touching her daughter's full head of hair. “Yeah, but she's got her dad's eyes and hair.” 

“Shikamaru-kun must be very proud of her,” Lee said. “He is always sending us photos back home. I have a whole album of photos just of Ruri-chan.” 

“Shikamaru's a secret sap,” Kankurō said as he made his way towards the backdoor. “You shoulda seen him the night Ruri was born.” 

Temari scoffed. “Like you were anymore put together.”

“I think of the four of us, Temari was the most put together,” Gaara intoned. “I'll go check on Shikamaru. See what he needs.” 

Gaara followed Kankurō out into their private garden, where Shikamaru was busy working over coals, several tagine already sizzling with meats and vegetables. The sandpit was already in use, several cezve steaming with the scent of coffee. 

“You don't look like you need much help,” Gaara noted, coming up to the cooking station. 

“Like I'd let you help if I did,” Shikamaru said. “Unless you wanna cut up some fruit.” 

Gaara rolled his eyes, grabbing a knife. “What am I cutting?” 

“Prickly pears and mangoes.” 

“We have mangoes? I thought we were out.” 

“Picked some up from the market today. Figured with Lee here, we might as well do something special. Plus, that new batch of mangoes from the islands just came in and they're perfect.” 

“I'll have to remember that,” Gaara said, making a mental note. 

“Is that the new supplier?” Kankurō asked, fiddling with the coffee over the sandpit. 

“Yeah. Our agreement with our northern supplier expired, and I'd wanted to try distancing us from the Daimyo's courts. Plus, the governor of Coconut Island is a good friend to Gyokukakushin.” 

“These mangoes are better, too,” Shikamaru added. “The ones from the north aren't as sweet.” 

Gaara grabbed the fruits from the bowls, listening to the idle chatter of his family, his mind drifting to his sister, niece, and Rock Lee as he cut. Juice pooled and stained his cutting board as he chopped, the sweet smell filling his nose and coating the back of his tongue. 

“How was the library?” Shikamaru asked, pulling Gaara from his focus on the fruits. 

“It was nice, but I think the entrance hall was his favorite part.” 

“The entrance hall is everyone's favorite part,” Kankurō chimed in. 

“Lee's not exactly a bookworm,” Shikamaru added.

“He said as much,” Gaara said vaguely. 

“Can't say that's a surprise,” Kankurō said, rising from the sandpit. “Coffee's good. I'll go grab the others.” 

“He's not stupid,” Gaara called after his brother.

“Never said he was,” Kankurō said, before disappearing inside. 

“So did he like anything else about the library?” 

“He enjoyed it,” Gaara said, returning to his careful cutting up of fruit. The juice now covered his hands, making them sticky. “I let him borrow a book, which he's determined to read.” 

“What book?” 

“It's an old poetry anthology I read as child.” 

“Really? What about?” 

“Love.” 

____________________________ 

Gaara stared down at the notes from the library's weavers, his eyes catching, over and over on the word 'love', written in looping letters that no one used anymore. Suna's forgotten language was only a vague entity in Gaara's mind, soundless and foreign, but he knew the word love. He'd always known the word love. 

Everything was love in the chaitya. The one and only time he'd stepped foot in it as a child, he'd seen the word carved into a stone monument at the back, and traced its curling letters with fingers so tiny they fit into the grooves. It was the only time, as a child, that he'd fit perfectly into love. 

He couldn't say the word—not then and not now—but he'd known without question what it had meant.

“Love,” he whispered to himself, letting the sound fall from him like a prayer. He whispered it again, this time in Sunago. Then again in Kazego. Then again in Indigosi, the language of Dusk Country. He knew how to say the word in so many languages—it was always the first word (and all its forms and uses) he learned when he studied a new language—but he'd never know how to say it in the original language of his people.

He wondered if it would ever be possible to recreate the language of Suna's past, and filed that concern away for another day, returning his attention to the notes on the tapestry's steady restoration. 

_'The missing section leaves us with little idea of the main body of the story, only the beginning and the end, but based on the evidence it is highly likely the tapestry depicts an ancient love story, possibly even Suna's first love story, which has been lost to Suna for centuries._

_In order to recreate the missing section, more research is needed.'_

The end of the notes were signed off by Kigen with an additional note for Gaara, hastily written in the margin at the end: _I have reason to believe the missing section was not burned from the tapestry, but cut._


	2. Second Stroke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The words of Suna's past were soundless, quieter than breath and softer than a whisper; and they were slipping away like water drying in the desert sun. Gaara had a catalog of the words in a notebook where he kept all knowledge precious to him—poems and songs, stories and prayers, a friend's favorite color or food—but it was a short catalog: eighteen precious words, their various meanings, and Gaara's musings on them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been fretting over this chapter for the last two weeks, and I'm so glad to finally have it done. Initially for GaaLee bingo, and despite the event being over, this does still fulfill a prompt! So this chapter's prompt is 'Family Time'! 
> 
> With that set aside, before I get to the actual posting, I wanted to give a huge shout out to [Ayu](https://ayumilovesstars.tumblr.com/), who is one of the sweetest people ever, does adorable GaaLee art, and has been so helpful with the Arabic (referred to as Indigosi) in this particular chapter. I could not have done this without her! And with that I would like to dedicate this whole chapter to her for being so supportive and wonderful! I would also like to dedicate this chapter to Darcy, who has also been so incredibly supportive _and_ has also been working on a beautiful piece of fanart from a scene from the first chapter. Finally, I would like to dedicate this chapter to Greyson, [a_gay_poster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_gay_poster), who has been a constant friend to me in the GaaLee fandom these past three years. I feel the next to thank so many people and express my appreciation for them, and this fic feels like the best way to do that, given the emotional nature of it. I hope that everyone enjoys this chapter, that it doesn't disappoint, and that everyone looks forward to the next! 
> 
> Edit to add: MASSIVE THANKS TO DARCY ONCE AGAIN BECAUSE SHE HAS NOW DRAWN NOT ONE BUT TWO PIECES OF FANART FOR THIS FIC. [This piece of art is so gorgeous, please give her lots of love for depicting a scene from this chapter!](https://sagemoderocklee.tumblr.com/post/635156487237419008/lee-was-drenched-in-sweat-by-the-time-gaara-found)
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Ningo came to Suna with the shinobi—or rather, it came to the land that would become Suna when the shinobi came from Fire, after the fall of the Kuge and the rise of the Daimyo. 

Before Ningo, Suna's indigenous people spoke another language, now forgotten in everything but name and a few sacred words that could not be eradicated. Beautiful words, in the blue halls of the chaitya—that could have meant 'sky' or 'god', 'love' or 'light', 'star' or 'sun', 'moon' or 'water'—had settled into the ancient stone with silver letters curling like comets in the deep blue. The God's Chaitya held its own inscriptions, housed in the Oratory, the oldest section of the library—words that stood strong and elegant within the curving arcs over the Oratory's entrance or in the circle of lapis around the glittering sunroof. Each word was shot through with golden rays of sunshine: 'life' or 'language', 'culture' or 'soul', 'story' or 'wisdom', 'song' or 'prayer'. These little hints at Suna's past, living in the walls of her oldest buildings, captivated Gaara. They were inscribed on his heart as surely as the Ningo on his forehead. 

The words of Suna's past were soundless, quieter than breath and softer than a whisper; and they were slipping away like water drying in the desert sun. Gaara had a catalog of the words in a notebook where he kept all knowledge precious to him—poems and songs, stories and prayers, a friend's favorite color or food—but it was a short catalog: eighteen precious words, their various meanings, and Gaara's musings on them.

Reviving Suna's forgotten language was a dream, one that often took hold of Gaara in the quiet of the night when he'd found time to read an old poem and wondered how his ancestors might have said the words. Did 'love' sound different in Suna's forgotten tongue? Did 'love' fall from the lips with more depth of feeling than the 'ai' that rested heavily on his forehead? Was the way of saying 'I love you' more reverent? Since 'love' and 'light' were born of the same root, did that change the definition somehow? Did 'love' once hold some secret glimmering like distant starlight? Could one even string the words 'I' and 'love' and 'you' together, or was there some other way of loving another? 

Would Gaara have understood 'love' better? Would 'love' fit comfortably inside his heart, instead of feeling like a foreign object he'd forced within himself? 

He scrawled the word, not knowing its sounds or its function beyond 'love' and 'light', and endlessly wished for understanding. 

____________________________

“What does this say?” Lee asked, pointing to a page in the anthology Gaara had taken from the library for him. 

The anthology was old—as most things in Suna's library were—and held within its pages an array of poems from all across Wind, and even to some lands beyond. Poems that had come to Wind through nomadic travelers, who'd later settled in the Oasis just north of Suna, filled the pages; ballads from Anar State, now a sovereign nation in the south-west of Wind, held their own place in the anthology; ghazals from Dusk Country, far west of Wind, had traveled long roads to reach the anthology's pages; and more poems still, from far away lands and not so far, had found a home within the book Lee held. 

Gaara had read every poem, many times over until he knew them by rout. Languages that he only knew bits and pieces filled his head like half formed echoes from a past life; haiku in Ningo came to him in the quiet moments when the village was falling asleep; fragments of poetry disturbed his political musings when boredom took hold in the midst of meetings where old men prattled on, their egos dripping from every word. When he'd been young and reading languages he didn't know, the book had proven a useful tool at soothing the chaos of mind deprived of sleep. Now, as an adult, they soothed the soul of a man, too busy caring for others to care for himself, with a thousand unanswered questions about love 

Gaara leaned over Lee's shoulder to get a better look at the page. 

_“When a man is in love how can he use old words?”_ Gaara read aloud, speaking not in Ningo, but Indigosi, the language of Dusk Country, which was a land more vast than even Wind. The poem Lee had pointed out was from the north-west, from the Twilight Region, where the spoken dialect was different, but no less beautiful. 

Lee looked up at Gaara, his eyes wide with confusion. “What?” 

“Sorry,” Gaara said, not sorry at all and hiding his amusement behind the mask of his expressionless face. “It says, 'When a man is in love how can he use old words? Should a woman desiring her lover lie down with grammarians and linguists? I said nothing to the woman I loved, but gathered love's adjectives into a suitcase and fled from all languages.'” 

Lee frowned down at the poem, his brow knitted and one cheek puffed up with air. “I do not think I understand.” 

“Really?” Gaara couldn't help asking. Of all his friends, he would have thought Lee to be an expert at deciphering love poems. 

Lee shrugged, still frowning down at the book. “I suppose it is beautiful,” he finally said, turning the page. 

“It's not to your liking, I see.” 

“What language was that?” Lee asked instead of answering. 

“Indigosi. That poem is from Dusk Country.” 

“Dusk Country?” Lee's frown deepened. “I have never heard of it.” 

“It's not a shinobi nation. It's beyond the mountains in the west of Wind.” 

“Is it far?” 

“Quite. About three months traveling on foot for shinobi. Longer if you can't use chakra.” 

Lee boggled. “How on earth did this poem end up here?” 

Gaara chuckled, turning from Lee to finish preparing their tea—Lee did not drink coffee, and quite frankly, Gaara did not think he ought to. “You'd be surprised at the determination of man—or perhaps you wouldn't.” 

“The writing is very beautiful,” Lee said, staring down at the next page, which was also in the flowing script of Indigosi. 

“Should I read that one to you?” 

Lee looked up at Gaara, something hidden in the black of his eyes. “Please.” 

“Shall I read it so you can understand? Or would you like to hear it in its original language?” 

“Both,” Lee said, an easy smile lighting his face. 

Gaara returned to Lee's side with their tray of tea, which he set on the low table between them. He took his place on one of the plush cushions, motioning for the book. 

“Ah, I like this one,” Gaara said, reading the short poem quickly. _“'Do not say my love was a ring or a bracelet. My love is a siege, is the daring and headstrong. Who, searching sail out to their death. Do not say my love was a moon. My love is a burst of sparks.'”_

Lee stared at Gaara in captivated rhapsody, as though he'd understood the words or as if Gaara had written the words for him. Gaara had never tried his hand at poetry, though, and love poetry in particular was an unfathomable beast to him. If love were a language he could parse, perhaps then he'd write poems or ballads, but the most he could do was hoard its root and derivatives, scrawled carefully in the margins of his heart. 

“It is strange,” Lee said in the ensuing silence. “I have no clue what you said, but I still feel the words.” 

“Do you think you'll like this one better?” Gaara couldn't help asking. 

“I think so.” 

Gaara read the poem again, this time in Ningo for the sake of Lee's understanding. 

“I liked it better in Indigosi, I think. It sounded different, more—powerful, I guess?” 

“Maybe because your ignorance gave it more power,” Gaara said quietly, turning the page. He knew the next twenty poems would be indecipherable to Lee, but they had little time before Gaara needed to return to the office. He added after a moment of skimming the text, “You should let me write out translations of these ones for you.” 

“Will you have time?” 

“I can make time,” he said simply. “I should have considered how little of this book you'd be able to understand when I pulled it for you.” 

“There are some haiku from Fire,” Lee said. “I found them while skimming through this last night.” 

“I remember,” Gaara murmured. “But that is only a small section. Most of the poems in here aren't in Ningo.” 

“Then while I am in Suna, I will learn a new language.” Lee laughed, leaning back against his pile of cushions. “Would you teach me Kazego? Or perhaps I should learn Sunago?” 

Gaara smiled, shaking his head as he set the book aside to pour Lee his tea. “You expect the Kazekage to be your language instructor as well as your translator?” 

Lee chuckled, taking the tea with a quiet thank you. He said softly into his tea, “I am only looking for an excuse to spend time with my good friend.” 

Gaara's smile was unbidden, warm like his tea and subtle as the steam curling from his cup. “You hardly need an excuse. I've told you countless times, you have an open invitation to my home.” 

“I will try not to abuse the privilege,” Lee said before finishing his tea. “I should let you return to your work.” 

“It is getting late,” Gaara agreed, reluctant to see Lee go. Short though his break had been, the quiet afternoon spent with Lee had been refreshing after the whirlwind of the past few days and he was uneager to return to his office. 

“Will I see you tomorrow for lunch?” 

“I have a lunch meeting, but you're welcome to join us for dinner.” 

“Will that be all right? Your family surely does not want to feed me every night.” 

“My family is happy for your company, as am I.” 

“Then I shall see you tomorrow night.” 

____________________________

“And you're sure of this?” Gaara asked, leaning close to the tapestry's ruined threads. 

“Positive,” Kigen said, handing him a magnifying glass. “If you look closely here, you can see that the threads have been cut. It's most obvious along the weft closest to the sides.” 

Gaara leaned closer, peering at the spot Kigen had pointed out. He was not a master weaver, and so he wasn't entirely sure what she was seeing, but he'd take her at her word. “And you don't think it's possible this is just a tear? Something that happened after the fire, caused by weakened threads?” 

“I don't,” Kigen confirmed, walking around to the other side of the tapestry. “The evidence of the cut is on both sides, and if you look closely, you can see certain parts of the warp are cut, too. Plus, silk is incredibly flamable; it is highly unlikely so much of the tapestry would still be intact if this fire hadn't been controlled—intentional. Someone didn't want anyone to know this had been cut.” 

“Hoping to discourage us from looking for the missing piece.” 

“Precisely.” Kigen smiled, but it faded quickly. “Unfortunately, we still haven't been able to find anything on the tapestry or what tale it could be.” 

“Have you been able to translate any of the other words?” Gaara touched a gloved finger to a singed edge, tracing the remnants of a curling word. 

“Only single words. Unfortunately, with our limited knowledge of Suna's original language there's not much we can make sense of. As I said before, the word 'love' appears here, but it could just as easily be 'light'. There—near your hand—is the word again. I don't think it's repeating, but I can't say for certain without the rest of the tapestry.” 

“What other words have you found?” Gaara asked, running his hand up the tapestry's side and tracing another familiar word: Star. 

“Sun” Kigen said, pointing to where Gaara's hand now rested. 

“You think it's meant to be 'sun'? Not 'star'?” 

Kigen waved a hand. “What I think is you're being extraordinarily particular about something we can't translate. If I had more information, I could tell you, but all we have are the words we've always known. But, based on the imagery intact, I would assume that says 'sun'.” 

“This looks familiar,” Gaara said, pointing to a word that shared many of the same characters that the word 'love' did, though it was longer and a mark hovered over its middle. 

“I'm sure you see what I saw,” Kigen said, a small smile on her face. 

“Love.” 

“It's possible that's the word for 'lover'—of course, that's just conjecture at this point, but if it is, it'll broaden our understanding of the language.” 

“But we don't have any other examples of such a thing,” Gaara said, disappointed. “It could mean something else entirely—a new concept even.” 

“An old concept, you mean,” Kigen said with a wry smile. She sighed heavily. “I would love it if we had any concrete ideas, but for now we're still guessing. Of course, if it is 'lover', it supports the theory that this tapestry depicts a love story.” 

“Unless this is meant to be read as 'light' and this is a compound.” 

“That is a possibility, but I like my theory better. Don't you?” She gave him one of her amused smiles, as though sharing a joke with him, though it was one he did not understand. 

“Do you have any idea why anyone might have cut this out?” he asked, instead of answering her question. “I could understand it being caught in the crossfire of some fight, but to cut out a whole section of the tapestry...” 

“I have a few theories—no proof of anything, of course.” 

Gaara waited a beat, watching Kigen from the corner of his eye while his gloved hands moved over the tapestry, as though by touching the threads he might somehow garner understanding. “Well?” 

“Why would you cut something from a piece of—not only art, but history?” 

Gaara gave Kigen a flat, unamused look. “To hide something.” 

“Indeed.” 

“I certainly could have figured that out on my own,” he said, annoyed. “Is that the only answer you could think of? That someone cut the tapestry to keep something hidden?” 

Kigen fought not to smile, her mouth puckered as she bobbed her head this way and that, as though waffling between 'yes' and 'no'. “Or to find something.” 

“You think Iwagakure still has a part of the tapestry?” 

“It's merely speculation, of course. But the Tsuchikage did have time before the ceremony, if she were so inclined to double-cross Suna.” 

“I trust Kurotsuchi.” They had both agreed that returning artifacts would be a step towards reconciliation, and he couldn't imagine her going back on her word. Oonoki, perhaps, but not Kurotsuchi. He pulled his hand from the tapestry, staring down at his soot-covered fingertips. “Can we tell how old the damage is?”

“I can have some tests run. It's unlikely to be concrete proof, but it might offer us some insight.” 

“Anything that might help us trace the location of the rest of the tapestry.” He removed his gloves, setting them aside for laundering. “If this tapestry does depict Suna's first love story, where else might that story have been kept?”

“Oral tradition,” Kigen said simply. “But this story has been lost to us for a long time, Kazekage. Not even my grandmother knew it, and she was alive before Suna's founding.” 

“How is that possible?” 

Kigen raised her eyebrows. “How is what possible?” 

“That she didn't know the tale.” 

“Simple: the shinobi didn't want us to know our history, just like they didn't want us to know our language.” 

Gaara frowned, staring past Kigen to look once more at the tapestry's luster and the words—not lost, but stolen—threaded through it. A thought, as fine as silk thread, wound its way around his mind. 

“Before this was taken, do you know where it was kept?” 

Kigen's answering frown was thoughtful. “I can't say I do. It would have been displayed somewhere important, of course, but as I've said, there are no records of this tapestry that I've found and it was lost before my time.” 

Gaara gave a thoughtful hum, before turning sharply on his heel. “Transcribe all legible script from the tapestry and have it sent to my home. I'll be in touch.” 

Kigen chuckled, letting an understanding 'ah' pass her lips. “You have water, would you care to share?” 

“Not yet,” Gaara said, making his way up the winding staircase towards the observation deck. He paused, his foot hovering on the top step for a brief second as another thought occurred to him. “Could you send me anything you have on the founding of Suna? And prior to it.” 

“Anything else?” 

“Not at the moment, but I'll keep you appraised of my research.” With another project on the horizon, he hurried from the library and back to his office, determined to catch up on the work that had piled up in the wake of Suna's new arrivals and the distraction of Rock Lee.

____________________________

The smell of spices still permeated the kitchen, even after their plates were clear and all that remained were a few dregs of fruit pulp at the bottoms of their glasses. 

Lee sat beside Gaara with a babbling Ruri in his lap, listening to her tale with rapt attention. 

“Think Ruri's got a new favorite person,” Kankurō said, a hint of jealousy creeping into his tone. He rose from his seat, beginning to gather their dishes. 

“We're gonna have to rope you into babysitting for us sometime,” Temari said with a laugh. 

Lee flushed, his delighted smile growing. “I am honored that you would put such faith in me!” 

“Would you like that, Ruri-chan?” Temari asked, leaning towards her daughter. “Would you like Uncle Lee to watch you?” 

Ruri clapped her hands and giggled, babbling back at her mother, as if in agreement. 

“Careful, Bowl-Cut,” Kankurō warned. “Once she's got you babysitting, you'll be trapped. Temari might never let you go back to Konoha.” 

“I am sure I could escape,” Lee said with a chuckle. “Besides, I could run from Konoha back here in no time if my help was desperately needed.”

“You say that now, but just wait 'til she throws up on ya.” 

Lee laughed, bouncing his leg gently, making Ruri giggled all the more. “I have dealt with far worse. I think I could handle a baby's vomit.” 

“Suit yourself,” Kankurō said, grabbing the last of the plates. “Whose turn is it for dishes?” 

“Mine,” Shikamaru said, rising from his seat. 

“Would you like help?” Lee offered, as Ruri reached for his nose. She grabbed it in her tiny hands, but Lee hardly appeared to mind. He pulled a silly face at her until she screeched in delight, releasing his nose—which was pink from her mighty grip—to clap her hands. 

“Nah. You're on baby duty,” Shikamaru said, reaching to brush his daughter's hair and place a kiss on the top of her head. 

“And since Lee's on baby duty, I am going to take a shower,” Temari said, getting to her feet and stretching. “Unless you have to get going.” 

“I actually have something for you,” Gaara interrupted, before Lee could answer. 

“For me?” he asked, his cheeks now a faint pink to match his nose.

“The translations you wanted.” 

“Oh, right!” He got to his feet, sliding Ruri onto his hip for support as though it were second nature. 

“I'll only be about ten minutes,” Temari called, disappearing from the kitchen. 

“We'll be in my study,” Gaara called after her, leaving through an archway on the opposite side of the kitchen and motioning for Lee to follow.

Gaara's study was a room crammed with shelves weighed down by books and scrolls, with a desk shoved into one corner. The window was covered by slatted shutters, and beneath it was a window seat covered in colorful pillows for the rare company Gaara had. Since Ruri's birth, she'd been his most common companion, and he'd commandeered more pillows to place on the floor whenever she sat in the window seat. He could always count on his sand to catch her, but the pillows were an extra precaution. 

“You can set Ruri over there,” Gaara said, indicating the window seat. “Go ahead and put some of the pillows on the floor.” 

Lee appeared to hesitate for a moment, but he complied, setting Ruri down and setting to work arranging the pillows on the floor with painstaking precision, stopping to analyze the distance from the window seat to the floor as though measuring the possible trajectory of a falling baby.

“If she falls my sand will catch her,” Gaara assured Lee, picking up some of Ruri's toys from his desk. 

“She is so well-behaved,” Lee said, watching as Gaara handed her colorful blocks with different characters inscribed on them. 

“That's what everyone tells us. She had a few nights a couple months ago where she wasn't sleeping, but I'm always able to stay up with her, so it's hardly an issue for Temari and Shikamaru.” 

Lee looked up at Gaara, a soft smile smoothing the wideness of his eyes. “It is very strange to imagine you with a child.” 

Gaara couldn't help the quiet snort of amusement. “It was strange at first. I don't think I'd ever have a child of my own, but I enjoy being an uncle.” 

Lee's smile slipped slightly. “You do not want children?” 

“Not particularly,” Gaara admitted. He'd thought about the possibility once, not long after the war when the council had tried pressuring him into marriage and the production of an heir. “I don't believe fatherhood would suit me.” 

“I always thought I would be a great father,” Lee said quietly, watching Ruri, who was now stacking her blocks precariously. He leaned forward, pointing to one of the blocks. “Do you know what that says, Ruri-chan?” 

Ruri gave him a gummy smile, holding up a block to him. “Ah ba-ba-ba-ba-ba.” 

“Is that right?” Lee asked, accepting the block. He pointed to the character on the block in his hand. “This says 'ru'. Can you say 'ru'?” 

“Ooh,” Ruri offered. “Oh bu-bu-bu.” 

Lee laughed, placing the block on top of another, then adding more blocks to his stack. “She is so talkative. I imagine she will be saying her first words in no time.” 

Gaara watched Lee from the corner of his eye, warmed by Lee's fondness for his niece. “I'm curious to see what her first word will be.” 

“And which language,” Lee added with a grin. He pointed to the stack of blocks. “That is your name, see? Ru-ri! Can you say 'Ruri'?” 

Gaara chuckled, turning to his desk where the anthology sat open and half-covered by several pages of translations. He gathered them up, tapping the stack against the desktop. Twenty-five pages of poetry, translated by Gaara's delicate hand had kept him company in the early hours of the morning, as the sun rose over the village, while all was still and quiet. He'd only had enough time for the poetry in Indigosi, but he was sure it would keep Lee busy for a couple of days. 

“When you're done with these, I can translate more poems for you.” 

“I would like that,” Lee said, suddenly behind him. Somehow he'd crept up on Gaara and taken him by surprise. He peered over Gaara's shoulder, his breath like a breeze gusting past Gaara's ear. Gaara watched him from the corner of his eye, as Lee's own gaze roved the open page of the anthology. “What does that say?” 

Lee's finger hovered over the text, the tip of his finger grazing the word for love. Gaara found his gaze held by the word just beneath Lee's finger, the way the letters curled so artfully under the callous of a strong, scarred hand. 

“It says 'love',” Gaara whispered, swallowing heavily on the word. Gaara could remember the first time he'd learned the word, so young and so hardened to love, and struggled to get the syllable to pass his lips. 

_“Ḥub.”_ It had sat oddly in his throat, uncomfortable and foreign to him as only love could be. He'd whispered it to himself huddled in some dark corner of the quiet library, frustrated and angry that the word wouldn't come, convinced somehow that his struggle was a curse falling from his lips. 

“How do you say it?” Lee asked, pulling Gaara from his thoughts. Lee's body was a heavy presence behind him, like being haunted. Gaara could almost feel the beat of his heart echoing in the scant space that separated them.

 _“Love.”_ The word was no longer foreign to him, though sometimes he wondered if there weren't still some unanswerable question lurking in the way it fell from him. “The first letter will be difficult for you. It's not a sound you'd find in Ningo.” 

Lee, of course, took that as a challenge. “Huh-buh.” 

Gaara couldn't help the amused smile that crossed his face. Lee sounded less like he was speaking a beautiful word and more like he was gulping air. “You're a bit too forceful.” 

Ruri threw a block to the floor with a clatter, pulling their attention from the book. She gurgled, her tone one of deep disapproval. 

“Forgive me, Ruri-chan,” Lee cooed, returning to her and retrieving her fallen toy. “I did not mean to ignore you.” 

Ruri was delighted by Lee's return, and accepted the block by leaning forward as close to Lee as she could without falling to press an open-mouthed, saliva-filled kiss to his cheek. He laughed, picking her up and twirling them around briefly, the motion swift yet contained. 

“Ruri-chan, you stole my first kiss. Whatever shall I do?” 

Ruri's giggle was almost shrill in response to Lee's careful spinning of her. She clapped her hands, and let out another shrill giggle of delight, throwing herself against Lee so her tiny head bonked his. She was a joyful baby, energetic and happy at all times, and Lee was certainly a good fit for that energy. 

“Part of me wishes I could toss her in the air, but I fear that would be too dangerous,” Lee said, lifting her above his head and twirling the two of them in place. 

“I'd have to agree. You're far too strong for such at thing.” 

Quick as a flash, Lee released Ruri, letting her free-fall towards his chest for the briefest moment before catching her. Her happy giggling grew, followed by excited babbling and Lee's own laughter. 

“I think Kankurō was right: you are her new favorite.” 

Lee turned his smile on Gaara, lifting Ruri above his head again. “I am sure I could never replace you and Kankurō-san.” 

“And I'm sure once she starts talking, she'll be asking after you at every turn.” 

“Then I shall have more excuses to come visit,” Lee said, a sly smile on his face. He let Ruri free-fall again, catching her before she could fall too far. “Once the year is over, I will certainly feel homesick for this place.” 

“Will you?” It seemed strange to Gaara that Lee would call himself homesick for a place that wasn't his home. 

“Of course,” he said as easily as he caught Ruri, not an ounce of hesitation. “I always miss it when I have to go home. And I am sure it will be much harder to say goodbye after living here for a whole year. Plus,” he said, giving Ruri a gentle tickle, “I will miss you, Ruri-chan!” 

“Ba-ba-ba-buh,” Ruri said in response, as Temari appeared in the doorway, her wet hair pulled up in a messy bun. 

“Where's my little deer?” Temari chimed, voice sing-song and light. Ruri turned her head quickly, her smile bright as her mother approached. “Did she behave for you?” 

“She was perfect.”

“She stole Lee's first kiss,” Gaara teased, as Temari took Ruri into her arms. “I think we may have a hard time pulling her away from him.” 

As if to prove Gaara's point, Ruri whined, reaching for Lee from her mother's arms. 

“Oh, no you don't,” Temari chided. “It's time for bed. Thank you for watching her, Lee.” 

“Anytime!” 

“Say 'goodnight', Ruri,” Temari said, as Ruri whined and twisted this way and that. “Uh-oh, I think someone might be cranky tonight.” 

“If she keeps you up, let me know.” 

Temari waved Gaara off, shuffling from the room. “You've got company. Shikamaru and I will be fine.” 

She left, shushing Ruri as she went, who instantly began crying as she was taken to bed. 

“I promise I will not keep you,” Lee said as Ruri's crying faded. 

“You're not,” Gaara promised. He picked up the stack of translations again, handing them to Lee. “I was going to say before we were interrupted, if you wanted to learn to read Indigosi, you could use this to help. It won't be easy—the writing system is so different from Ningo—but it might help.” 

“I know one word, at least,” Lee said, grinning. “Hah-buh.” 

The amused snort that escaped Gaara seemed to catch Lee off guard. 

“I'm sorry,” Gaara said. “But that wasn't even close. You've added an extra syllable.” 

Lee's shoulders slumped, his smile slipping. “Could you say it again for me?” 

Gaara complied with a fond roll of his eyes. “You're not going to get it right away. You'll need to practice.” 

Lee mouthed the word silently, frowning as his mouth moved. “I am sure I will get it! If I cannot say it properly by tomorrow evening, I shall do one-thousand laps around the village—”

“At night,” Gaara reminded Lee, his tone firm but gentle. 

“At night,” Lee agreed. “Would you care to join me—if I cannot get it, I mean.” 

Gaara almost laughed. “No. I think I will pass, but afterwards, if you would like some company, I would be happy to join you.” 

“We could take a refreshing walk along the cliff side!” 

“I could show you some of the sights you haven't seen yet,” Gaara suggested.

“I would love that! There is still so much of Suna for me to see.” 

“When do you start your new job?” 

“Not until next month. They wanted to give me the chance to settle in and experience some of the village first.” 

“I'm glad to hear that.”

Lee hesitated a moment, glancing down at the pages of poetry in his hand and then the door. “I should get going. It is getting late, I would hate to keep you from your work.” 

Gaara found himself to be a strange mirror of Lee's hesitation. He enjoyed Lee's company far more than he enjoyed the solitude of his study, but he had work to do and he couldn't imagine Lee sitting quietly in the window seat while Gaara worked.

“I'll walk you out,” he finally offered. 

Lee bent to pick the pillows up from the floor and Gaara joined him. They rearranged them in silence, both comfortable and discomfiting. Once the pillows had been returned to their rightful place, Gaara showed Lee out, bidding him goodnight with the promise to see him the following evening. 

When he returned to his study, he found the anthology left behind, still open to the page he'd last translated for Lee. The final poem in Indigosi stared up at him, it's curling letters, so mysterious to Lee yet so clear to Gaara, drawing his gaze: 

إن كنتَ صديقي…ساعِدني  
كَي أرحَلَ عَنك..  
أو كُنتَ حبيبي…ساعِدني  
كَي أُشفى منك  
لو أنِّي أعرِفُ أنَّ الحُبَّ خطيرٌ جِدَّاً  
ما أحببت  
لو أنِّي أعرفُ أنَّ البَحرَ عميقٌ جِداً  
…ما أبحرت  
لو أنِّي أعرفُ خاتمتي  
…ما كنتُ بَدأت  
إشتقتُ إليكَ…فعلِّمني  
أن لا أشتاق  
علِّمني كيفَ أقُصُّ جذورَ هواكَ من الأعماق  
علِّمني كيف تموتُ الدمعةُ في الأحداق  
علِّمني كيفَ يموتُ القلبُ وتنتحرُ الأشواق  
إن كنت نبياً…خلصني  
…من هذا السحر  
من هذا الكفر  
حبك كالكف…فطهرني  
…من هذا الكفر  
إن كنتَ قويَّاً.. أخرجني  
…من هذا اليَمّ  
فأنا لا أعرفُ فنَّ العوم  
الموجُ الأزرقُ في عينيك…يُجرجِرُني نحوَ الأعمق  
وأنا ما عندي تجربةٌ  
في الحُبِّ…ولا عندي زَورَق  
إن كُنتُ أعزُّ عليكَ فَخُذ بيديّ  
فأنا عاشِقَةٌ من رأسي حتَّى قَدَمَيّ  
…إني أتنفَّسُ تحتَ الماء  
…إنّي أغرق  
…أغرق  
…أغرق  
____________________________

A Keeper stood on the threshold of Gaara's office, carrying a massive stack of books that blocked their view. 

“Kazekage-sama,” they said. “I have what you requested.” 

Gaara stared at the Keeper and the stack of books, flicking his wrist slightly so that his sand poured from his gourd and formed a table. “Set everything there.” 

The Keeper was followed into the room by another with a similar stack of books. The two Keepers set their stacks carefully on the little table of sand, identical expressions of wary relief on their faces. 

“Is that everything?” Gaara couldn't help but ask, half expecting anther Keeper to enter the room. 

“Yes, Kazekage-sama. We are still working on transcribing the tapestry, but the rest of the materials you requested are here. Kigen did wish to inform you, however, that if you wanted _all_ the works on Suna's founding, she would recommend you simply come to the library.”

“There's more?” Gaara asked. 

“An entire chamber, sir.” 

Gaara thought for a moment. “Send Kigen my thanks. If I find that I need more information, I will come by.” 

“Understood, Kazekage-sama.” The two Keepers bowed from the office, closing the door in their wake. 

Gaara rose from his seat, coming around his desk to pick up the book on the top of the first stack. The books cover was dingy and faded, and even its spine was blank from age. There was no way of knowing the books contents without opening it. 

He returned to his chair and, with great care, cracked the spine of the book, letting it fall open on his desk. The pages fluttered, settling finally on a painted picture of the chaitya, which Gaara could see from his office window. A note at the bottom of the page indicated the date the picture had been painted, two-hundred years ago, right before the founding of Suna. On the opposite page, Ningo flowed: 

_old gods, which the locals believed walked among them._

_The prayer hall—called_ chaitya _, though the word does not appear to originate in what is now called Sunagakure1—the indigenous peoples claim was built by the gods, themselves:_

_'They came to [Sunagakure] in secret, to meet in the hidden part of the world.'_

_An indigenous woman and a devotee of the prayer hall, who does not speak Ningo, tells her daughter this so she may pass on the knowledge to the shinobi who have begun to make their homes within the valley's walls. The language she speaks is old and dying, with only a handful of fluent speakers left, all of whom are devotees to the gods that once inhabited this land._

Gaara sets the book down, ignoring the rest of the page and the footnote to stare out his window at the chaitya, where he can see people mingling at its entrance, waiting for the midday prayer. Several devotees stood outside with incense burners, shaped like the sun and the moon, swinging from their hands. Their voices carried, distant and heavy, the melody of the chants they sang rising to greet Gaara from the desert below. 

He rose from his seat, leaving the book open on his desk. He left through the window, not bothering to inform his assistant of his departure. 

The street just below his office was crowded with people—both local and foreign—going about their day. From shopping to sightseeing to prayer, the street was busier than Gaara could ever remember seeing. Suna was never without activity, but since the start of the exchange program, it had taken on new life. He wondered if the other villages were experiencing something similar. 

He made his way though the crowd, which parted around him without a word of excuses. Foreigners watched him with wide eyes, while the locals offered smiles and greetings as he passed. He greeted everyone in return with a minute bow of his head as he made his way towards the chaitya. 

“Kazekage-sama, this is a lovely surprise,” a devotee greeted, bowing deeply. Incense curled around her hands, rising up from an incense burner made of silver and twisted into the shape of a crescent moon. It's filigreed design let the smoke escape, rising into the air and fading away. 

“Will you be joining us this afternoon?” another devotee asked. 

“I was hoping to walk the halls in private,” he said. 

“We would be honored, Kazekage-sama.” The two devotees bowed him into the prayer hall, their incense burners swaying back and forth, and the smoke curling around him as he passed between them. 

“Water, Kazekage-sama?” Another devotee, standing just beyond the entrance, held a chalice of water towards him. At the devotees side, a deep basin carved from a pillar of lapis lazuli, stood. The lapis had most likely come from the west, where a river ran through a deep valley, but when it had been brought to Suna, Gaara could not say, because the basin was an old piece of Suna's history. 

“Thank you,” Gaara intoned, accepting the offered chalice. He drank deeply from the cup, the water crisp on his tongue, emptying it quickly. 

“May the Wind keep you,” the devotee said as Gaara returned the chalice to him, and bowed as Gaara passed into the chaitya. 

Suna's chaitya was unlike any prayer hall Gaara had ever seen. He'd been to several in Wind, which held many temples and halls of prayer, but none paralleled Suna's chaitya and its beauty. The blue stone of the hall was so saturated it was almost hard to believe it real, and Gaara did not doubt that it was the work of the gods. Who else could create such a holy blue? The walls of the chaitya, which rose high above his head until they curved into a domed ceiling, were accentuated by beams of glimmering gold and silver stone. Gaara had never stopped to ask what the hall was made of, and he'd never dared use his sand to find out. 

The chaitya split, its round body divided into three separate rooms: the Hall of Sun, the Hall of Moon, and the Hall of Wind. The Hall of Sun was for midday prayer, the Hall of Moon was for midnight prayer, and the Hall of Wind was for communal prayer at any other time of day or night. Each hall was separated by a tapestry, woven from spider's silk and depicting the god that lived within the hall. Gaara, having only been in the chaitya the once, had never bothered to admire the tapestries, and so he'd never noticed the writing woven into them. 

Much like Suna's stolen tapestry, now returned, these tapestries held the same writing, and he stopped to stare, looking for any familiar words among the threads. 

“Kazekage-sama, the Hall of Sun will be full for our midday prayer,” a devotee reminded him, guiding several foreigners past him and towards the hall. “Would you prefer the Hall of Moon? The Hall of Wind will not be empty at this time, either, though it will be less crowded.” 

“Thank you,” he said. “But I think I will stay here.” 

At the back of the entrance hall, before the chaitya divided itself into chambers devoted to particular gods, was a monument. Solitary prayer was not uncommon there, and Gaara made his way to the back of, where the familiar monument sat. The word for 'love' or 'light' rested like fallen petals at its base, the perfect height for a damaged twelve-year old to reach up and touch the word. 

Gaara hadn't know then that the monument was not to be touched, and knowing now did not stay his hand. The gods hadn't punished him then, after all. 

The letters carved into the stone felt like an old friend. The stone was warm to the touch, and so smooth it might not have been rock at all (though Gaara knew it to be on instinct). He let out a slow, careful breath, pressing the pads of his fingers into the stone and letting the thin layer of sand there slough away so that the letters pressed against his skin and left marks. 

Love always left its mark. 

After a careful, reverent moment, he pulled his hand back and looked up at the monument's face, where a pair of eyes, carved from stone as blue as the hall itself, met his gaze. As a child, praying for absolution before the shrine, Gaara had believed that the gods were looking back at him. They were watching him, judging him, deciding his fate. 

But now he knew gods did not need eyes for such things. 

The figure in the stone was old and less defined than anything else in the hall, its face and body weathered away by time. Around the figure, the five symbols—carved and shot through with precious metals or glass—begged for Gaara to analyze them. He knew what the symbols represented: Sun, Moon, Wind, Water, and Earth. They'd never lost that knowledge, and the symbol for Earth had become the symbol for Sand, and thus Suna's emblem. 

The other symbols, however, lived only within the halls of the chaitya, on this one monument. 

“Excuse me,” Gaara called, turning away from the shrine. A devotee at the entrance to the Hall of the Sun looked up at the sound of his voice. 

“Kazekage-sama, is there something I can do for you?” 

“Yes,” Gaara said. “What sort of writings are housed here?”

“Religious texts, of course,” the devotee said, their forehead crinkling in confusion. They turned their covered head to greet new arrivals, the silver threads of their headdress catching the light falling in from the sun roof above. “Welcome, welcome. Is there any particular reason you ask, Kazekage-sama?” 

“I was curious about our history before this village became Suna. Would the texts you have here hold any of that knowledge?” 

“Certainly,” the devotee said. “But the texts are not a history. They would likely reference historical events in some manner, but I cannot promise their accuracy. And unfortunately, much of our religious tales are lost—you know how it is with oral tradition.” 

“Could I access those texts?” 

The devotee's expression went slack with surprise. “You wish to read them? I mean, of course. I don't see why that would be a problem.” 

“Can you send them to my office?” 

“By the Desert's Grace, I cannot. The texts cannot leave this hall, Kazekage-sama.” 

“Can they be transcribed? I can send for a Keeper and have them transcribe the writings.” 

“I think that would be permissible,” the devotee said slowly. “But I have to admit, I am not sure. No one has ever asked to transcribe them before.” 

“Who would know?” 

“The Oracle, Kazekage-sama.” The highest ranking devotee of the chaitya, the Oracle, was a position that had been left vacant for at least a hundred years.

“We don't have an Oracle,” he said, his tone tight. 

“I am aware, Kazekage-sama, but that would be the only person I could ask.” 

Gaara let out a quiet, frustrated huff. “Very well. I'll return when I can. Please inform the other devotees that I intend to read the text, and have them placed somewhere private.” 

“Understood, Kazekage-sama.” 

“Thank you. May the Sun warm you,” he said, inclining his head and departing. 

“And may the Moon light your way through the dark,” the devotee called to his retreating back. 

____________________________

Lee was drenched in sweat by the time Gaara found him just past midnight. He stood against the backdrop of the moon, his hair sticking to his forehead and a smile on his face so wide it caught the shimmering lights from the village below. He'd shed his tunic and his shemagh, wearing only a loose pair of trousers in a muted shade of green. 

“You should shower,” Gaara said by way of greeting, his nose scrunching involuntarily. 

Lee turned his smile towards Gaara, the steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath making the sweat on his body shine with the help of the moon. “If you do not mind waiting for me.” 

“I've cleared my schedule for the evening.” 

“Would you like to meet back here or somewhere else?” Lee asked, picking up his discarded clothes and shaking them of dust. 

“You can shower at my home,” Gaara offered. “The Kazekage's estate has a large ration of water.” 

“Really?” 

“We rarely take advantage of it, though,” Gaara assured Lee. “I prefer to leave it for emergencies.” 

“Will it bother you siblings? I do not want to wake anyone.” 

“You've seen our house,” Gaara pointed out. “You won't wake anyone.” 

“Then lead the way!” Lee declared, striking a pose and pointing a dramatic finger towards the village. 

Gaara snorted and shook his head, stepping closer to Lee. The cork of his gourd popped, sand cascading to the floor and scuttling around their feet. “This will be faster.” 

In an instant, Gaara's sand had enveloped them, whisking them away from the height of the plateau overlooking the village and carrying them swiftly into Gaara's study. As they touched down, Lee tottered for a moment, reaching out to stabilize himself against Gaara. 

“That was—”

“Sorry. I forget you're not used to traveling like that.” 

“It is all right,” Lee said, shaking his head slightly. “Someday, I will get used to it.” 

“You'll have more chance now,” Gaara said with a small smile. “There's a bathroom just down the hall to the left. You can leave your clothes in the basket for laundering.” 

“I can take them home—”

“It's not a problem for us to do it.”

Lee disappeared from the room without further argument, the sound of his heavy footsteps fading down the hall. Gaara slipped from the room afterwards, making his way to the kitchen. It was late, and their plans would keep Lee up well past his usual bedtime, so Gaara set about making a strong cup of black tea filled with spices to energize Lee. 

After several minutes of puttering around the kitchen, he heard the familiar sounds of Lee's footsteps, quicker and lighter than before.

“How do you turn on the water?” Lee asked sheepishly, poking his head around the main arch leading into the kitchen.

The kettle whistled. Gaara quickly shut off the stove, before following Lee down the hall. “I should have realized you would need help.” 

“It is all right. I promise not to take too long washing up!” 

The bathroom Gaara had sent Lee to was one of the smaller ones in the house, but no less ornate than any of the others. The bathroom was pristine, with sea-glass tiles in shades of soft green upon the floor; an ornate circular mirror above the sink, which was a stark black shot through with gold like kintsugi; and the walls were a mosaic of soft blue tiles with intricate patterns that circled the walls like soft clouds rolling overhead. The shower was understated, unlike the rest of the bathroom, and hidden behind a smoky blue glass wall. 

Gaara brushed past Lee, turning the shower on quickly. “If it's too hot, turn the dial this way. If you need to change the pressure, adjust this here. The water automatically shuts off after twenty minutes, but we prefer to keep our showers to ten, so just pull this out to turn it off.” 

With Lee educated on the more complicated nature of bathing in the Kazekage household, Gaara returned to the kitchen and finished preparing Lee's tea. True to his word, Lee did not take long and ten minutes later he was calling for Gaara from the hall, his voice high with strain. 

“Um, Kazekage-sama. We have a bit of a dilemma.” 

Frowning, Gaara made to follow Lee's voice, but Lee quickly said, the strain in his voice growing, “Please, stay where you are! I am indecent!” 

Understanding dawned on Gaara, and he snorted loudly and without restraint. “You have a towel on, I presume.” 

“Of course, I do, but—Kazekage-sama!” 

“You act as if I haven't seen you shirtless,” Gaara said, fighting down his amusement, his eyes lingering on Lee's bare chest, which he had indeed seen many times before. “I think I have something you can wear.” 

Lee trailed behind Gaara in silence, gripping the towel around his waist for dear life. His unbandaged hands were white knuckled, the scars stark against his skin for the tension in his tendons. 

Gaara led him up the stairs of the east wing and down the long hall, towards the room he'd made his own after moving into the estate following the Chūnin exams. He hadn't lived with his family before then, choosing instead to isolate himself, but even if he hadn't chosen to live alone, his father still would have made him. 

His room wasn't the biggest room in the house. He didn't spend much of his time in it, not having a need for sleep, and he was so busy that his study was more his than the bedroom ever had been. But he needed a place to keep personal belongings, and sometimes he simply liked to be alone. His family and his ANBU knew that when he was in his bedroom, he was not to be disturbed. 

“I should have something,” Gaara murmured, rummaging through his drawers. 

“Are you sure it will fit me?” Lee asked. The embarrassment was still straining his voice, but it had eased slightly. 

“I wear a lot of loose clothes when I'm home,” Gaara said absently. “Here. Try this.” 

Lee took the offered garment, meeting Gaara's eyes with a pleading look in his own. “Um. Where is the bathroom on this floor?” 

With a roll of his eyes, Gaara pointed behind Lee. “Down the hall, on your right.” 

Lee disappeared from the room, his expression one of immense relief. Five minutes later, he returned, fully clothed and looking far more comfortable. The tunic Gaara had lent him strained across his chest and the trousers were too short on him, so Lee had rolled them up, revealing his well-muscled calves and the scars there. Gaara's gaze rooted to Lee's exposed left leg and the network of scars marring the skin, warping it so that it looked less like skin and more like badly treated leather. 

Lee shifted, clearing his throat and declaring, “It mostly fits! I may stretch the shirt out a bit, though.” 

“That's all right,” Gaara rasped, tearing his gaze from Lee's leg. “It suits you.” 

Lee grinned, pulling his shoulders back and striking a pose that made the fabric strain across his chest. “Shall we then?” 

No longer naked, and freshly showered and smelling of citrus thanks to Kankurō's homemade soaps, Lee marched from Gaara's room, apparently eager for their late night out on the village. Now that he was clothed—however ill-fitting the garments—he'd shed his embarrassment in favor of excitement. 

“Did you have any place in particular you wanted to see?” Gaara asked, coming up beside Lee. 

“Anywhere you would like to show me! I trust you know all the best places in the village.” 

Gaara thought for a moment, standing on the threshold of his home, Rock Lee at his side and dressed as though he were Sunajin. There were so many wonderful places in the village he could show Lee, so many things that Lee would never have seen before. 

“I think we should start with the greenhouses.” 

“To the greenhouses!” Lee declared, jumping from the steps and onto the dirt pathway leading towards the road. 

Gaara found it difficult to keep his amusement in check as he followed after Lee, more sedate than his companion. Lee's enthusiasm was infectious, spreading to Gaara like pollen on a windy day. Lee walked at speed much too fast for Gaara, but he managed to catch up when Lee stopped at the end of the drive to wait for him. Lee seemed oblivious to his speed—weightless as he was—and was too excited to slow his pace. 

“This way,” Gaara said, nodding up the road. “The greenhouses are close by.” 

Lee looked ahead, searching for buildings he had never seen in the orange glow of the streetlamps. “Does Suna have a lot of greenhouses?” 

“There are greenhouses all around the village. The ones closest to us are the largest.” Gaara pointed down the road to a tall glass building, with an intricately domed crown. “We call these greenhouses Suna's Glass Paradise. It's a series of three connecting greenhouses with different climates—tropical, sub-tropical, and temperate—where we care for a variety of plant life—fruits and vegetables, flowers, fungi, trees. It was the first building shinobi made when they settled in Suna.” 

Suna's Glass Paradise had earned its name, not simply for the vegetation that grew plentifully within, but for the structure itself. The greenhouses consisted of three glass buildings arranged like an arrowhead, each building connected to the others by long glass halls. The glass of the buildings' was clear, and in the darkness looked nonexistent, so that the buildings appeared to be only painted iron beams. Each room was lit from within by glimmering lights that shown like the sun and made rainbows in the falling mist. The connecting halls of the Paradise were like a kaleidoscope, the glass in swirling patterns in various colors and glowing from the lights hung across the curved ceilings. 

The dome of the tallest greenhouse—the temperate house—was a striking arrangement of beams crossing each other and circling around. At the top of this dome sat a golden sphere that, in the daytime, reflected the sunlight until it looked to be aflame. The subtropical greenhouse, which was the second tallest, did not have an elaborately domed roof, but several small domes rising one above the other, the topmost of which held a crescent that caught moonlight and reflected it like water. The last greenhouse, with its tropical climate, was slighter than the other two, with a flat roof adorned with chimes that sang with the blowing of the wind. 

“During the day the glass is sometimes different colors, depending on how hot it is and how intense the sun.” 

“I thought the library was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen,” Lee said breathless as they drew level with the entrance. “How am I ever going to leave Suna, Kazekage-sama?” 

Gaara chuckled, pushing open the glass door, which was heavy from its iron framework. “Perhaps you won't leave at all.” 

“I do not know if Tenten would forgive me for staying,” he said on a laugh of his own, passing into the greenhouse. “Neji might, so long as I do not miss their wedding.” 

“They're engaged?” 

“Oh yes! For some time now. They were going to get married this year, but when Tenten's grandmother passed they decided to wait. Honestly, I think it is taking everything Tenten has not to just elope, but Neji wants a big wedding.” 

“Really? I find that surprising. He's always seemed so...” Gaara wasn't quite sure if 'pragmatic' was what one looked for in a spouse, but Hyuuga Neji had always struck him as such. 

Lee laughed, throwing his head back. “I know what you mean. He does not seem the type to be romantic, but after the war—almost dying changed him. He is still Neji, of course, but he is less cynical, I think. And Tenten means a lot to him.” 

“I understand that,” Gaara said, his voice gone soft and the flat tones of it pitched with a quiet emotion. “After I died, I felt changed. I don't think I could explain it, but I was.” 

Lee was silent, his gaze heavy on Gaara, some unnameable feeling in the black pools of his eyes. Gaara didn't want to remember that day tonight, however, and he did not want to see whatever the memory had brought to the surface in Lee's eyes. 

“Here we are,” Gaara said, pushing open the secondary door that led directly into the temperate climate greenhouse, forcing Lee to look away from him.

Inside, the greenhouse was a paradise of greenery, and flowering and fruiting plants. The smell of green and earth hit Gaara the moment they passed through the secondary door, the cooler air washing over him and seeping beneath the thin layer of sand on his skin. 

“This is—” Lee was at a loss for words as he stared around them. “I had no idea.”

“This way,” Gaara said, nodding towards a copse of trees arranged in such a way that they created a covered pathway for Gaara and Lee to wander. “This is the part of the greenhouse where we grow most of our produce. This is the orchard—” He lifted his arm, sand swirling up it like a snake and rising to the low hanging fruit of a tree. “Stone fruits are some of our most popular, but we also have a range of pome fruits and citruses, as well.” 

He held out the peach for Lee, who took it with a quiet word of thanks before biting into it. Juice burst from the pierced skin and dripped down his chin, and he made a startled sound, delighted and satisfied. 

“This is delicious,” Lee said around his mouthful of peach. “I have never had a peach from Suna before.” 

“We're not big on exporting what we grow in the greenhouses unless it's in abundance, and usually we only export within Wind. Besides, the quality isn't the same when they aren't fresh.” 

Lee ate his peach happily, doing his best not to make a mess and failing somewhat. The peaches in the greenhouse were juicy and plump and perfectly ripe, and Gaara picked one for himself, letting the sand on his face slide away so he could enjoy the fruit. 

He caught Lee's gaze as he bit into the peach, unexpectedly unnerved by the way Lee's eyes held his. Lee's gaze darted to his mouth, the pink of his own tongue poking between his parted lips to catch at a drop of juice at the corner of his mouth. The last time someone had looked at Gaara that way had been in Dusk Country, but he doubted Lee meant it in such a way. 

Gaara wiped the juice from his chin, holding the rest of his peach before his mouth like he might have held a kiss. He stared at Lee, who stared at him, and wondered. 

After a moment that might have lasted a lifetime or merely a split second, Lee looked away, laughing awkwardly with his cheeks tinted pink. “I—um may need a napkin.” 

“There's a fountain here,” Gaara murmured against the flesh of the peach, nodding behind them. “You can put the pit in there,” he added, gesturing to a jar of water beside the fountain. “We keep any seeds and pits, wash them, and plant them. Nothing goes to waste.” 

Lee practically scurried away from Gaara, like a dog with its tail between his legs, though the gesture lacked any real sense of fear. The fountain—on a timer, as all sources of water were—let out a gentle stream of water, which Lee cupped in his scarred hands, as careful and reverent as any Sunajin. He rinsed his face and drank the water all at once, as if afraid to waste a single drop. The fountain turned itself off after a minute, and Lee straightened, wiping his cleaned hands on his borrowed tunic. 

“That was very tasty!” he said, and Gaara did not miss the strain in his voice. 

“Like I said, they are best when fresh.” 

They wandered through the temperate climate greenhouse, sometimes in silence and sometimes with Gaara explaining a plant or a piece of the greenhouse's history to Lee, and always with something lingering between them. Gaara wondered, an hour later, as Lee bid him goodnight, what that something was. 

When he returned to his home, he found Lee's forgotten cup of tea sitting on his kitchen table, a tableau of an unrealized moment, and felt suddenly bereft. He was missing something, something that lingered like the taste of the peach on his tongue and the weight of Lee's gaze on his mouth. 

He was not a fool, nor was he naive, but to put words to the lingering taste of peaches and untouched cups of tea was to admit a truth he did not feel worthy of and to reveal a weakness he was not strong enough to overcome. 

____________________________

A partially-eaten peach sat on a plate on his desk, its juices pooling on the sealed clay. 

Gaara had abandoned it in a fit of pique, almost furious at the peach for reminding him of things he'd wanted to forget; of things he'd wanted to pretend did not exist. It was his own fault for ordering a crate full of peaches, somehow convinced that by eating them on his own, he could erase the memories of the other night from his mind. 

He huffed, tossing his notes onto his desk and glaring at the offending peach. 

“Gaara,” Temari's voice called from the kitchen. “Could you come here?” 

Eager for an excuse to get away from his research and the damnable peach, Gaara went to the kitchen where Temari was busy prepping dinner with Kankurō and Shikamaru. 

“Could you change Ruri for me?” she asked without looking up from the peaches she was slicing. “My hands are full.” 

“Sure.” 

“What time's Bowl-Cut gonna get here?” Kankurō asked as he washed a bowl of rice. 

“Rock Lee's coming?” Gaara couldn't help asking, his heart skipping a beat. 

“Didn't you invite him?” Temari asked.

“I did,” Shikamaru said. “Saw him at the market today lookin' a bit lost. He's still not used to Suna cooking.” 

“He'll get used to it eventually. You should have told him to come early. We could have taught him a few things.” 

“Next time.” 

Gaara picked up a whining Ruri from her playpen on the floor, where she was chewing on a frozen piece of mango. She gave a disgruntled gurgle as Gaara picked her up, the smell from her diaper wafting up to him as he lifted her. He scrunched his nose, staring down at her intently. “You smell.” 

Ruri, despite her dirty diaper and her aching gums, giggled and slapped a sticky hand against his cheek. He chuckled, bouncing her as he carried her from the kitchen to the common room. A knot had formed in his chest that no amount of stinky diapers could undo, but he diligently disposed of the diaper, cleaned his niece, and re-diapered her, returning to the kitchen in a distracted daze. 

“How's your work going?” Temari asked, now breaking cinnamon sticks with a knife. 

“It could be better,” Gaara admitted. “I'm distracted.” 

“Why don't you take a break? You can make the juice or something.” 

“Yeah, you can't mess that up,” Kankurō chimed in, returning to the kitchen from the pantry. “Did we start the coals? We're eatin' outside right?”

“I already did,” Shikamaru said. “And the goat's ready to go.” 

“We're having goat tonight?” 

“Yeah, there was a surplus at the market, and Lee said he's never tried it.” 

“We've also got saffron rice, onion mezgueldi—you liked that when we were in Dusk Country, right?—stewed white beans, and sweet rolls. We've also got peaches galore—why'd you order so many damn peaches again? Anyways, I was going to grill those with some orange blossom syrup and Kankurō's juicing them too.” 

Gaara regretted his rash decision to buy so many peaches with a sudden and all-consuming fervor. If Lee was coming to dinner, it would be an obvious reminder of their foray into the greenhouses; and on top of that he would be stuck eating peaches for the next month if they didn't go bad before then. 

“Hello? Suna to Gaara! Hello??”

“What?” Gaara snapped to attention to find his siblings and Shikamaru staring at him. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Just distracted,” he said evasively. 

“No shit. All this Cultural Council shit's got you overworked. Why don't you go outside and make some coffee.” 

Under the concerned gaze of his family, Gaara fled from the kitchen to the private gardens, where the sand pit was waiting to offer him the blissful reprieve of coffee. However, from the other side of the house at the edge of the property, a familiar presence caught his awareness.

Distracted as he was by Lee's arrival, he set about making coffee as methodically as he could, hoping that the action would keep his mind from wandering to the encroaching mass of chakra. It was just Rock Lee, his long time friend, coming to dinner. There was no reason to be so concerned. 

Ten minutes later, the backdoor opened and the tapestry was pushed aside by Lee, an expectant look in his eyes as he scanned the private garden for Gaara. 

“Kazekage-sama,” he said, when his gaze found Gaara, sitting stiffly by the sand pit. 

“Rock Lee,” Gaara returned, a stiffer greeting than usual. Lee's smile faded by a scant fraction, but just enough that Gaara could see it dim.

“Would you like to join me?” Gaara asked, trying to salvage the joy from Lee's waning smile. 

It had the desired effect. Lee's smile returned, and he immediately made his way to the pile of cushions at Gaara's side. 

Tonight, Lee was dressed in finer clothes than Gaara had seen him in yet. He wore a satin kaftan, the color of rust and humbly embellished with gold and pink blossoms, over his tunic, which today was the color of saffron and dotted with knotted threads the color of currants. He had found himself a length of silk the same color as his tunic, and fashioned a turban from it, which was wrapped around a small cap on his head. All that was left of Konoha in Lee was in his face.

“You've been shopping,” Gaara noted, blowing on his still hot coffee. 

Lee adjusted his kaftan as he sat, looking awkward in such finery. It was hardly the most luxurious of kaftans, and though it suited Lee aesthetically, he still looked out of place in it. “I have. I thought it would be nice to have more options, and I heard there was a festival next month.” 

Gaara had been so swamped with everything else that he'd honestly forgotten the festival. The festival marked the start of the rainy seasons, and was a time of not only celebration but prayer, a plea to the gods to bless the desert with good rains. 

“There is,” Gaara confirmed. “I had forgotten it was so close.”

“I assume you are going?” 

“Of course,” Gaara said simply. 

They lapsed into a silence that almost begged discomfort. 

“I finished the poetry,” Lee said after a moment. “It was lovely.” 

“Did you want me to transcribe more? The book is still in my study.” 

“If you would,” Lee said. “What other languages are in that book?” 

“Sunago and Kazego, of course. Ningo, which you already saw. There's poetry from all over the shinobi world, so you'll find Kumogo and Mizugo, and so on. There's a section in a language whose writing system is almost the same as Ningo, but it's read differently and more complex, I think—that's Longese. That one has many different dialects, and a sister language called Fenghuangan, which is also in there—”

“And you can read _all_ of that?” Lee asked, mouth hanging open. “I thought you said you read this as a child!” 

“I did,” Gaara said with a frown. “When I found a language I didn't know, I found whatever books I could and translated them. I didn't necessarily learn all the languages, but translating the poetry was painstaking enough work.”

“Which languages do you know then?” 

“Besides what you already know of me, I know Longese, and my Fenghuangan isn't bad. And I know several signed languages native to Wind, as well.” 

Lee opened and closed his mouth like a fish, boggling with unmitigated awe. “I cannot believe you know all those languages! And you did all this as a child!” 

“It was something to do with my time. Boredom was a dangerous state of mind for me back then, and without anyone to talk to, books and plants were my only source of emotional connection.” This was all a simple fact of his life, one that he knew was impressive to others—what child was reading poetry anthologies at six years old, after all—but for him, it had been an act of survival. Now, his love of learning was not motivated by such a need, but the initial motivation had formed habits that he would never be rid of. 

“I wish I had been that smart,” Lee said. “Perhaps the matron at my orphanage would have been nicer to me.” 

“You shouldn't need to be smart to be shown kindness,” Gaara said. 

“No,” Lee agreed. “But my life still might have been different.” 

As they lapsed once again into silence, the back door opened and Temari exited, a sleeping Ruri hanging from her chest in a sling and two bowls in her hands.

“Anyone want peaches before I grill them?”

The back of Lee's neck turned a pretty pink, like the blossoms adorning his kaftan, but he managed to hide his embarrassment, which surprised Gaara. “I would love some, Temari-san.” 

Temari handed him one of the bowls, rolling her eyes and saying, “You really don't need to be formal with us, Lee. I expect you'll be practically family by the end of the year, so you might as well get used to it. Besides, you'll upset the locals if you keep on with all those honorifics.” 

“I will?” Lee asked, horrified. “But—I—”

“Lee, trust me. No one here is going to like it. The only people who get that level of respect are this family and a few council members. Not even Baki gets addressed like that, and he was technically our teacher.” 

“But I—what—”

“It's all right, Lee. Breathe,” Temari soothed. “Take your time. Just practice with us first.” 

“I—I will do my best, Temari-sa—Temari.” 

“Good,” Temari said, giving him a thumbs up, which drew a shining smile from Lee. “That's so much better. Isn't it, Gaara?” 

“I agree. You'll drop my title, as well,” Gaara said, unintentionally firm, as though giving an order to a subordinate. 

The expression on Lee's face, though pink with embarrassment, was not the same flustered shock he'd offered Temari. He met Gaara's gaze with a quiet intensity that did not seem like him, and nodded. “As you wish.” 

Gaara felt a thrill travel his spine. He broke eye contact quickly, turning his gaze to find his sister staring.

Temari pressed her mouth into a thin line, fighting down her amusement. “Well, I'll just be grilling these—over there,” she said, emphasizing that her presence would remain. “Would you mind watching Ruri?” 

Silently, Gaara's sand sloughed from his skin, the thin layer sliding away to reveal the darker skin beneath. The sand morphed into a swing set between himself and Lee, where Temari carefully set Ruri before casting a pointed look at Gaara and making her way to the stone grill.

With his sister present, Gaara was even more aware of the unspoken tension between himself and Lee. The two of them lapsed into silence, while Temari hummed a familiar tune as she laid out the peaches to cook. After a moment, Lee rose to his feet. 

“Excuse me, I just need to use the bathroom.” 

“You know where it is?” Temari called.

“I do, thank you.” 

Lee disappeared, and not a moment later Temari spoke, as though she'd barely managed to bite her tongue to keep from speaking sooner.

“This reminds me of when we were in Dusk Country. Doesn't it, Gaara? Having dinner with Lee almost every night.” 

“I don't think so,” Gaara said tightly. 

“I dunno,” she said, slow as the fall of honey from a jar and looking far too pleased with herself. “It reminds me of all that time you spent with Prince Nadeem. You two became _such_ good friends, after all.” 

Gaara pressed his mouth together tightly, fighting the hot embarrassment rising in his face. “I don't think I know what you mean.” 

“Oh, right, because you're just _so_ naive,” Temari scoffed. “Our delicate little brother, right?” 

“I wouldn't say that,” Gaara ground out. “But what happened between me and Nadeem is hardly what's happening between myself and Rock Lee.” 

“If you say so,” Temari sang. She leaned forward, careful of the grill. “But take it from your big sister, that is _exactly_ what's happening—in fact, I'd say it's been happening for a _long_ time.” 

“How could you know that?” 

“Gaara, I'm not only your big sister, but a Jōnin, a diplomat, a wife, and a mother. Trust me, I know what I see when Lee looks at you—I've known for longer than you'd like to know, in fact. I was just waiting for you to figure it out. So what did it?” 

“Could we not do this now?” Gaara begged, his stomach in knots. “Rock Lee is a good friend, and I do not wish to jeopardize that friendship.” 

“But you were willing to jeopardize Suna's relationship with Dusk Country?” she asked with a doubtful raise of her eyebrows. “Don't bullshit me, Gaara.” 

“The arrangement Nadeem and I had was different,” he bit out. “If Rock Lee feels as you say he feels, it's nothing like Nadeem.” 

“No,” Temari agreed, suddenly quiet. “You're right, it's not. The way Lee looks at you—” She broke off, looking down at her sizzling peaches. “You're right. I'm prying where I shouldn't—guess I can't help that, being your big sister, but—I just want to see you happy.” 

Happy, Gaara thought, disconnected from the word and its source. He was happy. Why did he need this to be happy? Was his life somehow less if he didn't have it? Was it worth the cost of losing Lee if, in the end, Gaara still couldn't make love work in this manner that still so baffled him? If Gaara couldn't make his heart beat to the hidden rhythms of love that he still hadn't figured out, what then? Could he risk their friendship on a handful of moments and a base attraction? 

He had so little experience in these matters, and what he did know was only a fragment of love. 

Lee returned not long after, in time for Temari's peaches to finish and Ruri to wake from her nap and demand all of Lee's attention, leaving Gaara once again as bereft as a forgotten cup of tea.

____________________________

Several crumpled up sheaves of paper littered the floor of his study. 

He sat with his head pressed against the glass of the window, his body propped against the mountain of pillows that overwhelmed the window seat. He stared vacantly out at the cacti surrounding his house, unseeing and vacant. His personal notebook sat open in his lap to a page with a few short notes on Rock Lee. 

_Rock Lee's favorite color: green  
Rock Lee's favorite food: curry (all kinds, especially spicy curries)  
Rock Lee's favorite activity: training  
Rock Lee's favorite word: Love _

Gaara's eyes burned, not-quite-tears filling the corners of his eyes and disappearing into the thin layer of sand on his skin. He wasn't crying, he wasn't heartbroken, he was simply confused. Confused and bereft, and perhaps—if he were being honest—a little heartbroken at his own misunderstanding. 

He stared down at Lee's favorite word, the same character as the one on his forehead. 

He turned the pages of his notebook, flipping to the front where his list of words in Suna's forgotten language had been written. 'Love' and 'light' stared back up at him, soundless and familiar. What was the light missing from the love he'd always known? Was it Rock Lee? Could Gaara make sense of love with him? Could Lee help him understand what seemed unfathomable?

Was it even worth it to try? 

Gaara had thought, at one time, that Nadeem had been enough. He'd tasted what so many people had and that he'd been sure, before that, that he would never; he'd had, for a moment, what all the poets wrote about; he'd known intimately for a brief instant what the world seemed to crave, and he'd been satiated. He'd hungered for more, at times, when the night was still and he was lonely, but it had been enough. It had to be. 

Rock Lee, however, was more than Nadeem. He was more than a foreign prince with a beautiful face and soft hands, staring at Gaara across a table weighed down by political documents; he was more than quiet, secret moments in a far away palace. He was Gaara's past, he was Gaara's present, and Gaara owed much of the future that was yet to unfold to Rock Lee. If Lee hadn't broken through his sand, who would Gaara even be now? 

With a careful, reverent finger, Gaara traced the soundless letters for 'love', and wondered if there was even a way to be a 'lover' in Suna's old tongue. Maybe that was why this scared him so, maybe he was simply not meant for such things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I now need to direct everyone's attention to the most amazing piece of [meme fanart](https://sagemoderocklee.tumblr.com/post/634887755601772544/last-night-glug-chat-went-wild-and-cmdr-bun-made) ever created by [cmdr-bun](https://cmdr-bun.tumblr.com/) which should be the official art for this fic.
> 
> All poetry used in this chapter is by [Nizar Qabbani](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nizar_Qabbani) and can be found [here](https://www.poemhunter.com/i/ebooks/pdf/nizar_qabbani_2004_9.pdf). The poems featured in this fic are _Language_ , _Dialogue_ , and the final one left untranslated in the original Arabic, [Letters From Under the Sea.](https://translationsbykevin.wordpress.com/2013/05/30/letter-from-under-the-sea-nizar-qabbani-arabic-english-translation/)
> 
> Suna's Glass Paradise Greenhouses were loosely based on the Royal Greenhouses of Laeken. 
> 
> Sunajin comes from Suna+jin (a person modifier in Japanese). Examples in the real world would be Nihonjin (Japanese) or Amerikajin (American). 
> 
> Longese and Fenghuangan are meant to be Chinese dialects. All languages within the shinobi world use the 'go' which means 'language' (ex Nihongo) in Japanese, hence Kumogo, Mizugo, Sunago, Kazego...

**Author's Note:**

> A [deel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deel_\(clothing\)) is a traditional Mongolian piece of clothing. A [kaftan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaftan) is a type of tunic or robe, somewhat similar though different to the deel and with different cultural origins. In my mind, Suna is a mix of various cultures, which is why there are both kaftans and deels. This will be further expanded upon as this fic continues. 
> 
> [Āina-kāri](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C4%80ina-k%C4%81ri) is a type of interior decoration created by Iranian artists, using cut mirrors. 
> 
> A [tagine](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tajine) is a type of cookware. And a [cezve](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cezve) is a type of pot used for making coffee. The coffee preparations follow certain [Arabic coffee](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arabic_coffee) cultures.


End file.
